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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Glenarvon, Volume 3 (of 3), by
-Caroline Lamb
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Glenarvon, Volume 3 (of 3)
-
-Author: Caroline Lamb
-
-Release Date: August 17, 2022 [eBook #68776]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed Proofreading
-             Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
-             images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 3 (OF
-3) ***
-
-
-
-Transcriber’s Note:
-
-  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
-  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
-
-  The following are possible misspellings:
-          Annabel/Anabel
-          arbutes
-          arouzed
-          Costolly/Costoly
-          encrease
-          intrusted
-          Glanaa/Glenaa
-          hurah
-          inforce
-          Kendall/Kendal
-          traitress
-
-  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
-
-
-
-
-     GLENARVON.
-
-     IN THREE VOLUMES.
-
-     VOL. III.
-
-     LONDON:
-     PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
-     1816.
-
-     London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
-     13, Poland Street.
-
-
-
-
-     Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme
-     Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXII.
-
-
-Love, though, when guilty, the parent of every crime, springs forth
-in the noblest hearts, and dwells ever with the generous and the
-high-minded. The flame that is kindled by Heaven burns brightly and
-steadily to the last, its object great and superior, sustained by
-principle, and incapable of change. But, when the flame is unsupported
-by these pure feelings, it rages and consumes us, burns up and destroys
-every noble hope, perverts the mind, and fills with craft and falsehood
-every avenue to the heart. Then that which was a paradise, becomes a
-hell; and the victim of its power, a maniac and a fiend. They know not
-the force of passion, who have not felt it—they know not the agony
-of guilt, who have not plunged into its burning gulf, and trembled
-there. O! when the rigorous and the just turn with abhorrence from
-the fearful sight—when, like the pharisee, in the pride of their
-unpolluted hearts, they bless their God that they are not as this
-sinner—let them beware; for the hour of trial may come to all; and
-that alone is the test of superior strength. When man, reposing upon
-himself, disdains the humility of acknowledging his offences and his
-weakness before his Creator, on the sudden that angry God sees fit to
-punish him in his wrath, and he who has appeared invulnerable till that
-hour, falls prostrate at once before the blow; perhaps then, for the
-first time, he relents; and, whilst he sinks himself, feels for the
-sinner whom, in the pride and presumption of his happier day, he had
-mocked at and despised. There are trials, which human frailty cannot
-resist—there are passions implanted in the heart’s core, which reason
-cannot subdue; and God himself compassionates, when a fellow-creature
-refuses to extend to us his mercy or forgiveness.
-
-Fallen, miserable Calantha! where now are the promises of thy youth—the
-bright prospects of thy happiness? Where is that unclouded brow—that
-joyous look of innocence which once bespoke a heart at ease? Is it the
-same, who, with an air of fixed and sullen despondency, flying from a
-father’s house, from a husband’s protection, for one moment resolved
-to seek the lover whom she adored, and follow him, regardless of every
-other tie? Even in that hour of passion and of guilt, the remembrance
-of her husband, of her sacred promise to her aunt, and of that gentle
-supplicating look with which it was received, recurred. A moment’s
-reflection changed the rash resolve; and hastening forward, she knew
-not where—she cared not to what fate—she found herself after a long
-and weary walk at the vicar’s house, near Kelladon—a safe asylum and
-retreat.
-
-The boat which had conveyed her from the shore returned; and a few
-hours after brought Glenarvon to the other side of the rocks, known
-in the country by the name of the Wizzard’s Glen, and ofttimes the
-scene of tumult and rebellious meeting. Calantha little expected to
-see him. He met her towards evening, as weary and trembling she stood,
-uncertain where to fly, or what to do. The moment of meeting was
-terrible to both; but that which followed was more agonizing still.
-A servant of her father’s had discovered her after a long search. He
-informed her of her aunt’s illness and terror. He humbly, but firmly,
-urged her instantly to return.
-
-Calantha had resolved never to do so; but, lost as she was, the voice
-of her aunt still had power to reach her heart.—“Is she very ill?”
-“Very dangerously ill,” said the man; and without a moments delay,
-she immediately consented to return. She resolved to part from him
-she adored; and Glenarvon generously agreed to restore her to her
-aunt, whose sufferings had affected his heart—whose prayers had moved
-him, as he said, to the greatest sacrifice he ever was called upon to
-make. Yet still he upbraided her for her flight, and affirmed, that
-had she but confided herself in him, she had long before this have
-been far away from scenes so terrible to witness, and been spared a
-state of suspense so barbarous to endure. Whilst he spoke, he gazed
-upon her with much sadness.
-
-“I will leave you,” he said; “but the time may come when you will
-repent, and call in vain for me. They may tear my heart from out my
-breast—they may tear thee from me, if it is their mad desire. I shall
-or die, or recover, or forget thee. But oh! miserable victim—what
-shall become of thee? Do they hope their morality will unteach the
-lessons I have given; or pluck my image from that heart? Thou art
-mine, wedded to me, sold to me; and no after-time can undo for thee,
-what I have done. Go; for I can relinquish thee. But have they taught
-thee, what it is to part from him you love? never again to hear his
-voice—never again to meet those eyes, whose every turn and glance
-you have learned to read and understand?”
-
-Calantha could not answer. “You will write kindly and constantly to
-me,” at length she said. “May God destroy me in his vengeance,” cried
-Glenarvon eagerly, “if, though absent, I do not daily, nay, hourly
-think of thee, write to thee, live for thee! Fear not, thou loved
-one. There was a time when inconstancy had been a venial error—when
-insecure of thy affections, and yet innocent, to fly thee had been a
-duty, to save thee had been an angel’s act of mercy and of virtue;—but
-now when thou art mine; when, sacrificing the feelings of thy heart
-for others, thou dost leave me—can you believe that I would add to
-your grief and increase my own. Can you believe him you love so base
-as this? Oh! yes, Calantha, I have acted the part of such a villain
-to your lost friend, that even you mistrust me.” She re-assured him:
-“I have given my very soul to you, O! Glenarvon. I believe in you,
-as I once did in Heaven. I had rather doubt myself and every thing
-than you.”
-
-She now expressed an anxiety to return and see her aunt. “Yet,
-Calantha, it may perhaps be said that you have fled to me. The stain
-then is indelible. Think of it, my beloved; and think, if I myself
-conduct you back, how the malevolent, who are ever taunting you, will
-say that I wished not to retain you. They know me not; they guess
-not what I feel; and the world, ever apt to judge by circumstances
-imperfectly related, will imagine”.... “At such a moment,” said
-Calantha, impatiently, “it is of little importance what is thought.
-When the heart suffers keenly, not all the sayings of others are of
-weight. Let them think the worst, and utter what they think. When
-we fall, as I have done, we are far beyond their power: the venomed
-shaft of malice cannot wound; for the blow under which we sink is
-alone heeded. I feel now but this, that I am going to part from you.”
-
-Glenarvon looked at her, and the tears filled his eyes. “Thy love,”
-he said, “was the last light of Heaven, that beamed upon my weary
-pilgrimage: thy presence recalled me from error: thy soft voice
-stilled every furious passion. It is all past now—I care not what
-becomes of me.” As he spoke, they approached the boat, and entering
-it, sailed with a gentle breeze across the bay. Not a wave rippled
-over the sea—not a cloud obscured the brightness of the setting sun.
-“How tranquil and lovely is the evening!” said Glenarvon, as the bark
-floated upon the smooth surface. “It is very calm now,” she replied,
-as she observed the serenity of his countenance. “But, ah! who knows
-how soon the dreadful storms may arise, and tear us to destruction.”
-
-The boat now touched the shore, where a crowd of spectators were
-assembled—some watching from the top of the high cliff, and others idly
-gazing upon the sea. The figure of Elinor distinctly appeared amongst
-the former, as bending forward, she eagerly watched for Glenarvon.
-Her hat and plume distinguished her from the crowd; and the harp, her
-constant companion, sounded at intervals on the breeze, in long and
-melancholy cadences. Her dark wild eye fixed itself upon him as he
-approached. “It is my false lover,” she said, and shrieked. “Hasten,
-dearest Calantha,” he cried, “from this spot, where we are so much
-observed. That wretched girl may, perhaps, follow us. Hasten; for see
-with what rapidity she advances.” “Let her come,” replied Calantha. “I
-am too miserable myself to turn from those that are unhappy.” Elinor
-approached: she gazed on them as they passed: she strained her eyes
-to catch one last glimpse of Glenarvon as he turned the path.
-
-Many of his friends, retainers and followers were near. He bowed to
-all with gracious courtesy; but upon Elinor he never cast his eyes.
-“He’s gone!” she cried, shouting loudly, and addressing herself to
-her lawless associates, in the language they admired. “He is gone;
-and peace be with him; for he is the leader of the brave.” They now
-passed on in silence to the castle; but Elinor, returning to her
-harp, struck the chords with enthusiasm, whilst the caverns of the
-mountains re-echoed to the strain. The crowd who had followed loudly
-applauded, joining in the chorus to the well-known sound of
-
-     “Erin m’avourneen—Erin go brah.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXIII.
-
-
-The moment of enthusiasm was past; the setting sun warned every
-straggler and passenger to return. Some had a far distant home to
-seek; others had left their wives or their children. Elinor turned
-from the golden light which illuminated the west, and gazed in agony
-upon the gloomy battlements of St. Alvin Priory, yet resplendent
-with the last parting ray. Of all who followed her, few only now
-remained to watch her steps. She bade them meet her at the cavern at
-the accustomed hour. She was weary, and feigned that till then she
-would sleep. This she did to disembarrass herself of them.
-
-Upon raising herself after a little time, they were gone. It was
-dark—it was lonely. She sat and mused upon the cliff, till the pale
-moon broke through the clouds, and tipped every wave with its soft
-and silvery light.—“The moon shines bright and fair,” she said: “the
-shadows pass over it. Will my lover come again to me? It is thy voice,
-Glenarvon, which sings sweetly and mournfully in the soft breeze of
-night.”
-
-     My heart’s fit to break, yet no tear fills my eye,
-     As I gaze on the moon, and the clouds that flit by.
-     The moon shines so fair, it reminds me of thee;
-     But the clouds that obscure it, are emblems of me.
-
-     They will pass like the dream of our pleasures and youth;
-     They will pass like the promise of honor and truth;
-     And bright thou shalt shine, when these shadows are gone,
-     All radiant—serene—unobscur’d; but alone.
-
-“And did he pass me so coldly by? And did he not once look on me?”
-she said. “But I will not weep: he shall not break my spirit and
-heart. Let him do so to the tame doves for whom he has forsaken me.
-Let such as Alice and Calantha die for his love: I will not.”—She
-took her harp: her voice was tired and feeble. She faintly murmured
-the feelings of her troubled soul. It sounded like the wind, as it
-whispered through the trees, or the mournful echo of some far distant
-flute.
-
-
-SONG.
-
-     And can’st thou bid my heart forget
-     What once it lov’d so well;
-     That look—that smile, when first we met;
-     That last—that sad farewell?
-
-     Ah! no: by ev’ry pang I’ve prov’d,
-     By ev’ry fond regret,
-     I feel, though I no more am lov’d,
-     I never—can forget.
-
-     I wish’d to see that face again,
-     Although ’twere chang’d to me:
-     I thought it not such madd’ning pain
-     As ne’er to look on thee.
-
-     But, oh! ’twas torture to my breast,
-     To meet thine alter’d eye,
-     To see thee smile on all the rest,
-     Yet coldly pass me by.
-
-     Even now, when ev’ry hope is o’er
-     To which I....
-
-“Are these poetical effusions ended?” said a soft voice from
-behind.—She started; and turning round, beheld the figure of a
-man enveloped in a dark military cloak, waiting for her upon the
-cliff.—“What a night it is! not a wave on the calm sea: not a cloud in
-the Heavens. See how the mountain is tinged with the bright moonshine.
-Are you not chilled—are you not weary; wandering thus alone?” “I am
-prepared to follow you,” said Elinor, “though not as a mistress, yet
-as a slave.” “I do not love you,” said the man, approaching her. “Oh,
-even if you were to hang about and kneel to me as once, I cannot love
-you! Yet it once was pleasant to be so loved; was it not?” “I think
-not of it now,” said Elinor, while a proud blush burned on her cheek.
-“This is no time for retrospection.” “Let us hasten forwards, by the
-light of the moon: I perceive that we are late.—Have you forgiven
-me?” “There are injuries, Glenarvon, too great to be forgiven: speak
-not of the past: let us journey on.”
-
-The lashing of the waves against the rocks, alone disturbed the
-silence of this scene. They walked in haste by each others side, till
-they passed Craig Allen Point, and turned into the mouth of a deep
-cavern. Whispers were then heard from every side—the confusion of
-strange voices, the jargon of a foreign dialect, the yells and cries
-of the mutineers and discontented. “Strike a light,” said Elinor’s
-companion, in a commanding tone, as he advanced to the mouth of the
-rock.—In a moment, a thousand torches blazed around, whilst shouts
-of joy proclaimed a welcome to the visitor, who was accosted with
-every mark of the most obsequious devotion.
-
-“How many have taken the oath to-night?” said a stout ill-looking
-man, advancing to the front line. “Sure, Citizen Conner, fifty as
-brave boys as ever suck’d whiskey from the mother country,” answered
-O’Kelly from within. The ferocious band of rebels were now ordered
-forward, and stood before their leader; some much intoxicated, and
-all exhibiting strange marks of lawless and riotous insubordination.
-“We’ll pay no tythes to the parsons,” said one. “We’ll go to mass,
-that we will, our own way.” “We’ll be entirely free.” “There shall
-be no laws amongst us.” “We’ll reform every thing, won’t we?” “And
-turn all intruders out with the tyrants.” “Here’s to the Emerald
-Isle! Old Ireland for ever! Erin for ever!” “Come, my brave boys,”
-shouted forth one Citizen Cobb, “this night get yourselves pikes—make
-yourselves arms. Beg, buy, or steal, and bring them here privately
-at the next meeting. We’ll send your names in to the directory. Fear
-nothing, we will protect you: we’ll consider your grievances. Only
-go home peaceably, some one way, and some another—by twos, by threes.
-Let us be orderly as the king’s men are. We are free men; and indeed
-free men can make as good soldiers.”
-
-“I would fain speak a few words, citizen, before we part to-night.
-The hour is not yet ripe; but you have been all much wronged. My
-heart bleeds for your wrongs. Every tear that falls from an Irishman
-is like a drop of the heart’s best blood: is’t not so, gentlemen?
-Ye have been much aggrieved; but there is one whom ye have for your
-leader, who feels for your misfortunes; who will not live among you to
-see you wronged: and who, though having nothing left for himself, is
-willing to divide his property amongst you all to the last shilling.
-See there, indeed, he stands amongst us. Say, shall he speak to you?”
-“Long life to him—let him speak to us.” “Hear him.” “Let there be
-silence as profound as death.” “Sure and indeed we’ll follow him to
-the grave.” “Och, he’s a proper man!” A thousand voices having thus
-commanded silence:
-
-“Irishmen,” said Glenarvon, throwing his dark mantle off, and standing
-amidst the grotesque and ferocious rabble, like some God from a higher
-world—“Irishmen, our country shall soon be free:—you are about to
-be avenged. That vile government, which has so long, and so cruelly
-oppressed you, shall soon be no more! The national flag—the sacred
-green, shall fly over the ruins of despotism; and that fair capital,
-which has too long witnessed the debauchery, the plots, the crimes of
-your tyrants, shall soon be the citadel of triumphant patriotism and
-virtue. Even if we fail, let us die defending the rights of man—the
-independence of Ireland. Let us remember that as mortals we are liable
-to the contingencies of failure; but that an unalterable manliness
-of mind, under all circumstances, is erect and unsubdued. If you
-are not superior to your antagonist in experience and skill, be so
-in intrepidity. Art, unsupported by skill, can perform no service.
-Against their superior practice, array your superior daring; for
-on the coward, who forgets his duty in the hour of danger, instant
-punishment shall fall; but the brave, who risk their lives for the
-general cause, shall receive immediate distinction and reward.—Arise
-then, united sons of Ireland—arise like a great and powerful people,
-determined to live free or die.”
-
-Shouts of applause for a moment interrupted Glenarvon. Then, as if
-inspired with renewed enthusiasm, he proceeded: “Citizens, or rather
-shall I not say, my friends; for such you have proved yourselves to
-me, my own and dear countrymen; for though an exile, whom misfortune
-from infancy has pursued, I was born amongst you, and first opened
-my delighted eyes amidst these rocks and mountains, where it is my
-hope and ambition yet to dwell. The hour of independence approaches.
-Let us snap the fetters by which tyrants have encompassed us around:
-let us arouse all the energies of our souls; call forth all the
-merit and abilities, which a vicious government has long consigned to
-obscurity; and under the conduct of great and chosen leaders, march
-with a steady step to victory.”
-
-Here Glenarvon was again interrupted by the loud and repeated
-bursts of applause. Elinor then springing forward, in a voice that
-pierced through the hearts of each, and was echoed back from cave to
-cave—“Heard ye the words of your leader?” she cried: “and is there
-one amongst you base enough to desert him?” “None, none.” “Then arm
-yourselves, my countrymen: arm yourselves by every means in your
-power: and rush like lions on your foes. Let every heart unite,
-as if struck at once by the same manly impulse; and Ireland shall
-itself arise to defend its independence; for in the cause of liberty,
-inaction is cowardice: and may every coward forfeit the property he
-has not the courage to protect! Heed not the glare of hired soldiery,
-or aristocratic yeomanry: they cannot stand the vigorous shock of
-freedom. Their trappings and their arms will soon be yours. Attack
-the tyrants in every direction, by day and by night.—To war—to war!
-Vengeance on the detested government of England! What faith shall
-you keep with them? What faith have they ever kept with you? Ireland
-can exist independent. O! let not the chain of slavery encompass us
-around.—Health to the Emerald isle! Glenarvon and Ireland for ever!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXIV.
-
-
-The cry of joy has ceased. Elinor and her companion have quitted the
-cavern. Before she parted for the night, she asked him respecting one
-he loved. “Where is Calantha?” she said. “In yon dreary prison,” he
-replied, pointing to Castle Delaval:—“like a rose torn from the parent
-stem, left to perish in all its sweetness—gathered by the hand of the
-spoiler, and then abandoned. I have left her.” “You look miserable,
-my Lord.” “My countenance is truer to my feelings than I could have
-supposed.” “Alice dead—Calantha discarded! I heard the tale, but it
-left no credit with me.—Can there be hearts so weak as thus to die
-for love? ’Tis but a month ago, I think, you said you never would
-leave her; that this was different from all other attachments; that
-you would bear her hence.” “I have changed my intention: is that
-sufficient?” “Will she die, think you?” “Your uncle will, if you
-continue thus,” replied Glenarvon. “I am sick at heart, Elinor, when
-I look on you.” “Old men, my Lord, will seek the grave; and death can
-strike young hearts, when vain men think it their doing. I must leave
-you.” “Wherefore in such haste?” “A younger and truer lover awaits
-my coming: I am his, to follow and obey him.” “Oh, Elinor, I tremble
-at the sight of so much cold depravity—so young and so abandoned.
-How changed from the hour in which I first met you at Glenaa! Can it
-be possible?” “Aye, my good Lord; so apt a scholar, for so great a
-master.”
-
-Glenarvon attempted to seize her hand. “Do you dare to detain me? Touch
-me not. I fear you.” ... “Elinor, to what perdition are you hastening?
-I adjure you by your former love, by Clare of Costoly, the boy for
-whom you affect such fondness, who still remains the favorite of my
-heart, return to your uncle. I will myself conduct you.” “Leave your
-hold, Glenarvon: force me not to shriek for succour.—Now that you have
-left me, I will speak calmly. Are you prepared to hear me?” “Speak.”
-“Do you see those turrets which stand alone, as if defying future
-storms? Do you behold that bleak and barren mountain, my own native
-mountain, which gave me the high thoughts and feelings I possess;
-which rears its head, hiding it only in the clouds? Look above: see
-the pale moon, that moon which has often witnessed our mutual vows,
-which has shone upon our parting tears, and which still appears to
-light us on our guilty way: by these, by thyself, thy glorious self,
-I swear I never will return to virtue:
-
-     “For the heart that has once been estrang’d,
-     With some newer affection may burn,
-     It may change, as it ever has chang’d,
-     But, oh! it can never return.
-
-“By these eyes, which you have termed bright and dear; by these dark
-shining locks, which your hands have oft entwined; by these lips,
-which, prest by yours, have felt the rapturous fire and tenderness
-of love—virtue and I are forsworn: and in me, whatever I may appear,
-henceforward know that I am your enemy. Yes, Glenarvon, I am another’s
-now.” “You can never love another as you have loved me: you will
-find no other like me.” “He is as fair and dear, therefore detain
-me not. I would rather toil for bread, or beg from strangers, than
-ever more owe to you one single, one solitary favour. Farewell—How I
-have adored, you know: how I have been requited, think—when sorrows
-as acute as those you have inflicted visit you. Alice, it is said,
-blest you with her dying breath. Calantha is of the same soft mould;
-but there are deeds of horror, and hearts of fire:—the tygress has
-been known to devour her young; and lions, having tasted blood, have
-fed upon the bowels of their masters.”
-
-St. Clare, as she spoke, stood upon the edge of the high cliff to
-which they had ascended. The moon shone brightly on her light figure,
-which seemed to spring from the earth, as if impelled forward by the
-strength of passion. The belt of gold which surrounded her slender
-waist burst, as if unable longer to contain the proud swelling of
-her heart: she threw the mantle from her shoulders; and raising the
-hat and plume from her head, waved it high in the air: then darting
-forward, she fled hastily from the grasp of Glenarvon, who watched her
-lessening form till it appeared like a single speck in the distance,
-scarce visible to the eye.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXV.
-
-
-Before Glenarvon had met Elinor upon the cliff, he had conducted Lady
-Avondale to her father’s house. The first person who came forward
-to meet them was Sir Richard. “My dear child,” he said, “what could
-have induced you to take in such a serious manner what was meant in
-jest? There is your aunt dying in one room; and every one in fits or
-mad in different parts of the house. The whole thing will be known
-all over the country; and the worst of it is, when people talk, they
-never know what they say, and add, and add, till it makes a terrible
-story. But come in, do; for if the world speak ill of you, I will
-protect you: and as to my Lord Glenarvon there, why it seems after
-all he is a very good sort of fellow; and had no mind to have you;
-which is what I hinted at before you set out, and might have saved
-you a long walk, if you would only have listened to reason. But come
-in, do; for all the people are staring at you, as if they had never
-seen a woman before. Not but what I must say, such a comical one,
-so hot and hasty, I never happened to meet with; which is my fault,
-and not yours. Therefore, come in; for I hate people to do any thing
-that excites observation. There now; did not I tell you so? Here are
-all your relations perfectly crazy: and we shall have a scene in the
-great hall, if you don’t make haste and get up stairs before they
-meet you.” “Where is she? where is she?” said Mrs. Seymour; and she
-wept at beholding her. But Calantha could not weep: her heart seemed
-like ice within her: she could neither weep nor speak. “My child,
-my Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, “welcome back.” Then turning to
-Glenarvon, whose tears flowed fast, “receive my prayers, my thanks
-for this,” she exclaimed. “God reward you for restoring my child to
-me.”
-
-“Take her,” said Lord Glenarvon, placing Calantha in Mrs. Seymour’s
-arms; “and be assured, I give to you what is dearer to me, far
-dearer than existence. I do for your sake what I would not for any
-other: I give up that which I sought, and won, and would have died to
-retain—that which would have made life dear, and which, being taken
-from me, leaves me again to a dull blank, and dreary void. Oh! feel
-for what I have resisted; and forgive the past.” “I cannot utter my
-thanks,” said Mrs. Seymour. “Generous Glenarvon! God reward you for
-it, and bless you.” She gave him her hand.
-
-Glenarvon received the applauses of all; and he parted with an
-agitation so violent, and apparently so unfeigned, that even the duke,
-following, said, “We shall see you, perhaps, to-morrow: we shall ever,
-I’m sure, see you with delight.” Calantha alone shared not in these
-transports; for the agony of her soul was beyond endurance. Oh, that
-she too could have thought Glenarvon sincere and generous; that she
-too, in parting from him, could have said, a moment of passion and my
-own errors have misled him!—but he has a noble nature. Had he taken
-her by the hand, and said—Calantha, we both of us have erred; but
-it is time to pause and repent: stay with a husband who adores you:
-live to atone for the crime you have committed:—she had done so. But
-he reproached her for her weakness; scorned her for the contrition
-he said she only affected to feel; and exultingly enquired of her
-whether, in the presence of her husband, she should ever regret the
-lover she had lost.
-
-When we love, if that which we love is noble and superior, we contract
-a resemblance to the object of our passion; but if that to which we
-have bound ourselves is base, the contagion spreads swiftly, and
-the very soul becomes black with crime. Woe be to those who have
-ever loved Glenarvon! Lady Avondale’s heart was hardened; her mind
-utterly perverted; and that face of beauty, that voice of softness,
-all, alas! that yet could influence her. She was, indeed, insensible
-to every other consideration. When, therefore, he spoke of leaving
-her—of restoring her to her husband, she heard him not with belief;
-but she stood suspended, as if waiting for the explanation such
-expressions needed.—It came at length. “Have I acted it to the life?”
-he whispered, ere he quitted her. “’Tis but to keep them quiet. Calm
-yourself. I will see you again to-morrow.”
-
-That night Calantha slept not; but she watched for the approaching
-morrow. It came:—Glenarvon came, as he had promised: he asked
-permission to see her one moment alone: he was not denied. He entered,
-and chided her for her tears; then pressing her to his bosom, he
-inquired if she really thought that he would leave her: “What now—now
-that we are united by every tie; that every secret of my soul is
-yours? Look at me, thou dear one: look again upon your master, and
-never acknowledge another.” “God bless and protect you,” she answered.
-“Thanks, sweet, for your prayer; but the kiss I have snatched from
-your lips is sweeter far for me. Oh, for another, given thus warm
-from the heart! It has entranced—it has made me mad. What fire burns
-in your eye? What ecstasy is it thus to call you mine? Oh, tear from
-your mind every remaining scruple!—shrink not. The fatal plunge into
-guilt is taken: what matter how deep the fall. You weep, love; and
-for what? Once you were pure and spotless; and then, indeed, was the
-time for tears; but now that fierce passions have betrayed you—now
-that every principle is renounced, and every feeling perverted, let
-us enjoy the fruits of guilt.
-
-“They talk to us of parting:—we will not part. Though contempt may
-brand my name, I will return and tear thee from them when the time
-is fit; and you shall drink deep of the draught of joy, though death
-and ignominy may be mingled with it. Let them see you again—let the
-ties strengthen that I have broken. That which has strayed from the
-flock, will become even dearer than before; and when most dear, most
-prized: a second time I will return, and a second time break through
-every tie, every resolve. Dost shudder, sweet one? To whom are you
-united? Remember the oaths—the ring; and however estranged—whatever
-you may hear, remember that you belong to me, to me alone. And even,”
-continued he, smiling with malicious triumph, “even though the gallant
-soldier, the once loved Avondale return, can he find again the heart
-he has lost? If he clasp thee thus, ’tis but a shadow he can attempt
-to bind. The heart, the soul, are mine. O! Calantha, you know not
-what you feel, nor half what you would feel, were I in reality to
-leave you. There’s a fire burns in thee, fierce as in myself: you are
-bound to me now; fear neither man nor God. I will return and claim
-you.”
-
-As he spoke, he placed around her neck a chain of gold, with a locket
-of diamonds, containing his hair; saying as he fastened it: “Remember
-the ring: this, too, is a marriage bond between us;” and, kneeling
-solemnly, “I call your God,” said he, “I call him now to witness,
-while that I breathe, I will consider you as my wife, my mistress;
-the friend of my best affections. Never, Calantha, will I abandon,
-or forget thee:—never, by Heaven! shalt thou regret thy attachment
-or my own.”
-
-“Glenarvon,” said Calantha, and she was much agitated, “I have no
-will but yours; but I am not so lost as to wish, or to expect you to
-remain faithful to one you must no longer see:—only, when you marry—”
-“May the wrath of Heaven blast me,” interrupted he, “if ever I call
-any woman mine but you, my adored, my sweetest friend. I will be
-faithful; but you—you must return to Avondale: and shall he teach you
-to forget me? No, Calantha, never shall you forget the lessons I have
-given: my triumph is secure. Think of me when I am away: dream of me
-in the night, as that dear cheek slumbers upon its pillow; and, when
-you wake, fancy yourself in Glenarvon’s arms. Ours has been but a
-short-tried friendship,” he said; “but the pupils of Glenarvon never
-can forget their master. Better they had lived for years in folly and
-vice with thousands of common lovers, than one hour in the presence
-of such as I am. Do you repent, love? It is impossible. Look back to
-the time that is gone; count over the hours of solitude and social
-life; bear in your memory every picture of fancied bliss, and tell
-me truly if they can be compared to the transport, the ecstasy of
-being loved.
-
-“Oh! there is Heaven in the language of adoration; and one hour thus
-snatched from eternity is cheaply purchased by an age of woe. My love,
-my soul, look not thus. Now is the season of youth. Whilst fresh and
-balmy as the rose in summer, dead to remorse, and burning with hidden
-fires, dash all fear and all repentance from you; leave repinings to
-the weak and the old, and taste the consolation love alone can offer.
-What can heal its injuries? What remove its regrets? What shews you
-its vanity and illusion but itself? This hour we enjoy its transports,
-and to-morrow, sweet, we must live upon its remembrance.
-
-“Farewell, beloved. Upon thy burning lips receive a parting kiss;
-and never let or father, or husband, take it thence. Dissemble well,
-however; for they say the conquering hero returns—Avondale. Oh! if
-thou shouldst—but it is impossible—I feel that you dare not forget
-me. We must appear to give way: we have been too unguarded: we have
-betrayed ourselves: but, my life, my love is yours. Be true to me.
-You need not have one doubt of me: I never, never will forsake you.
-Heed not what I say to others: I do it but to keep all tranquil, and
-to quiet suspicion. Trust all to one who has never deceived thee. I
-might have assumed a character to you more worthy, more captivating.
-But have you not read the black secrets of my heart—aye, read, and
-shuddered, and yet forgiven me?”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXVI.
-
-
-The repetition of a lover’s promises is perhaps as irksome to those
-who may coldly peruse them, as the remembrance is delightful to those
-who have known the rapture of receiving them. I cannot, however,
-think that to describe them is either erroneous or unprofitable. It
-may indeed be held immoral to exhibit, in glowing language, scenes
-which ought never to have been at all; but when every day, and every
-hour of the day—at all times, and in all places, and in all countries
-alike, man is gaining possession of his victim by similar arts, to
-paint the portrait to the life, to display his base intentions, and
-their mournful consequences, is to hold out a warning and admonition
-to innocence and virtue: this cannot be wrong. All deceive themselves.
-At this very instant of time, what thousands of beguiled and credulous
-beings are saying to themselves in the pride of their hearts, “I am
-not like this Calantha,” or, “thank God, the idol of my fancy is not
-a Glenarvon.” They deem themselves virtuous, because they are yet
-only upon the verge of ruin: they think themselves secure, because
-they know not yet the heart of him who would mislead them. But the
-hour of trial is at hand; and the smile of scorn may soon give place
-to the bitter tear of remorse.
-
-“Many can deceive,” said Glenarvon, mournfully gazing on Calantha
-whilst she wept; “but is your lover like the common herd? Oh! we
-have loved, Calantha, better than they know how: we have dared the
-utmost: your mind and mine must not even be compared with theirs. Let
-the vulgar dissemble and fear—let them talk idly in the unmeaning
-jargon they admire: they never felt what we have felt; they never
-dared what we have done: to win, and to betray, is with them an air—a
-fancy: and fit is the delight for the beings who can enjoy it. Such
-as these, a smile or a frown may gain or lose in a moment. But tell
-me, Calantha, have we felt nothing more? I who could command you, am
-your slave: every tear you shed is answered not by my eyes alone, but
-in my heart of hearts; and is there that on earth I would not, will
-not sacrifice for you?
-
-“I know they will wound you, and frown on you because of me; but if
-once I shew myself again, the rabble must shrink at last: they dare
-not stand before Glenarvon. Heaven, or hell, I care not which, have
-cast a ray so bright around my brow, that not all the perfidy of a
-heart as lost as mine, of a heart loaded, as you know too well, with
-crimes man shudders even to imagine—not all the envy and malice of
-those whom my contempt has stung, can lower me to their level. And
-you, Calantha, do you think you will ever learn to hate me, even were
-I to leave, and to betray you? Poor blighted flower, which I have
-cherished in my bosom, when scorned and trampled on, because you have
-done what they had gladly done if I had so but willed it! Were I to
-subject you to the racking trial of frantic jealousy, and should you
-ever be driven by fury and vengeance to betray me, you would but harm
-yourself. To thy last wretched hour, thou wouldst pine in unavailing
-recollection and regret; as Clytie, though bound and fettered to the
-earth, still fixes her uplifted eyes upon her own sun, who passes
-over, regardless in his course, nor deigns to cast a look below.”
-
-It was at a late hour that night, when after again receiving the thanks
-of a whole family—when after hearing himself called the preserver of
-the wretch who scarcely dared to encounter his eyes, Lord Glenarvon
-took a last and faltering leave of Calantha. Twice he returned and
-paused: he knew not how to say farewell: it seemed as if his lips
-trembled beneath the meaning of that fearful word—as if he durst not
-utter a knell to so much love—a death to every long cherished hope.
-At length, in a slow and solemn voice, “Farewell, Calantha,” he said.
-“God forgive us both, and bless you.” Lady Avondale for one instant
-ventured to look upon him: it was but to impress upon her memory every
-feature, every lineament, and trace of that image, which had reigned
-so powerfully over her heart. Had thousands been present, she had
-seen but that one:—had every danger menaced him, he had not moved.
-Thus in the agony of regret they parted; but that regret was shared;
-and as he glanced his eye for the last time on her, he pointed to
-the chain which he wore with her resemblance near his heart; and he
-bade her take comfort in the thought that absence could never tear
-that image from him.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXVII.
-
-
-And now the glowing picture of guilt is at an end; the sword of
-justice hangs over the head of a devoted criminal; and the tortures of
-remorse are alone left me to describe. But no: remorse came not yet:
-absence but drew Calantha nearer to the object of her attachment. They
-never love so well, who have never been estranged. Who is there that
-in absence clings not with increasing fondness to the object of its
-idolatry, watches not every post, and trembling with alarm, anxiety
-and suspense, reads not again and again every line that the hand of
-love has traced? Is there a fault that is not pardoned in absence? Is
-there a doubt that is not harboured and believed, however agonizing?
-Yet, though believed, is it not at once forgiven? Every feeling but
-one is extinct in absence; every idea but one image is banished as
-profane. Lady Avondale had sacrificed herself and Glenarvon, as she
-then thought, for others; but she could not bring herself to endure
-the pang she had voluntarily inflicted.
-
-She lived therefore but upon the letters she daily received from
-him; for those letters were filled with lamentations for her loss,
-and with the hope of a speedy return. Calantha felt no horror at her
-conduct. She deceived herself: conscience itself had ceased to reprove
-a heart so absorbed, so lost in the labyrinth of guilt. Lord Avondale
-wrote to her but seldom: she heard however with uneasiness that his
-present situation was one that exposed him to much danger; and after
-a skirmish with the rebels, when she was informed that he was safe,
-she knelt down, and said, “Thank God for it!” as if he had still been
-dear. His letters, however, were repulsive and cold. Glenarvon’s, on
-the other hand, breathed the life and soul of love.
-
-In one of these letters, Glenarvon informed her, that he was going to
-England, to meet at Mortanville Priory several of his friends. Lady
-Mandeville, Lady Augusta Selwyn, and Lady Trelawney, were to be of
-the party. “I care not,” he said, “who may be there. This I know too
-well, that my Calantha will not.” He spoke of Lady Mowbrey and Lady
-Elizabeth with praise. “Oh! if your Avondale be like his sister, whom
-I have met with since we parted, what indeed have you not sacrificed
-for me?” He confided to her, that Lady Mandeville had entreated him
-to visit her in London: “But what delight can I find in her society?”
-he said: “it will only remind me of one I have lost.”
-
-His letter, after his arrival in England, ended thus: “I will bear this
-separation as long as I can, my Calantha; but my health is consumed
-by my regret; and, whatever you may do, I live alone—entirely alone.
-We may be alone in the midst of crowds; and if indifference, nay,
-almost dislike to others, is a proof of attachment to you, you will
-be secure and satisfied. I had a stormy passage from Ireland. Is it
-ominous of future trouble? Vain is this separation.
-
-“I will bear with it for a short period; but in the spring, when the
-soft winds prepare to waft us, fly to me; and we will traverse the dark
-blue seas, secure, through a thousand storms, in each others devotion.
-Were you ever at sea? How does the roar of the mighty winds, and the
-rushing of waters, accord with you—the whistling of the breeze, the
-sparkling of the waves by night, and the rippling of the foam against
-the sides of that single plank which divides you from eternity? Fear
-you, Calantha? Oh, not if your lover were by your side, your head
-reclining on his bosom, your heart freed from every other tie, and
-linked alone by the dearest and the tenderest to his fate! Can you
-fancy yourself there, about the middle watch? How many knots does
-she make? How often have they heaved the log? Does she sail with the
-speed of thought, when that thought is dictated by love? Perhaps it
-is a calm. Heed it not: towards morn it will freshen: a breeze will
-spring up; and by to-morrow even, we shall be at anchor. Wilt thou
-sail? ‘They that go down into the great deep; they see the wonders
-of the Lord.’ That thou may’st see as few as possible of his terrific
-wonders, is, my beloved, the prayer of him who liveth alone for thee!
-
-“The prettiest and most perilous navigation for large ships is
-the Archipelago. There we will go; and there thou shalt see the
-brightest of moons, shining over the headlands of green Asia, or the
-isles, upon the bluest of all waves—the most beautiful, but the most
-treacherous. Oh, Calantha! what ecstasy were it to sail together, or
-to travel in those pleasant lands I have often described to you—freed
-from the gloom and the forebodings this heavy, noisome atmosphere
-engenders!—Dearest! I write folly and nonsense:—do I not? But even
-this, is it not a proof of love?”
-
-After his arrival at Mortanville Priory, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha
-a minute account of every one there. He seemed to detail to her
-his inmost thoughts. He thus expressed himself concerning Miss
-Monmouth:—“Do you remember how often we have talked together of Miss
-Monmouth? You will hear, perhaps, that I have seen much of her of
-late. Remember she is thy relative; but, oh! how unlike my own, my
-beloved Calantha! Yet she pleases me well enough. They will, perhaps,
-tell you that I have shewn her some little attention. Possibly this
-is true; but, God be my witness, I never for one moment even have
-thought seriously about her.” Lady Trelawney, in writing to her sister,
-thought rather differently. It was thus that she expressed herself
-upon that subject. “However strange you may think it,” she said in
-her letter to Sophia, “Lord Glenarvon has made a proposal of marriage
-to Miss Monmouth. I do not believe what you tell me of his continuing
-to write to Calantha. If he does, it is only by way of keeping her
-quiet; for I assure you he is most serious in his intentions. Miss
-Monmouth admires, indeed I think loves him; yet she has not accepted
-his offer. Want of knowledge of his character, and some fear of his
-principles, have made her for the present decline it. But their newly
-made friendship is to continue; and any one may see how it will end.
-In the mean time, Lord Glenarvon has already consoled himself for
-her refusal—but I will explain all this when we meet.
-
-“Remember to say nothing of this to Calantha, unless she hears of it
-from others; and advise her not to write so often. It is most absurd,
-believe me. Nothing, I think, can be more wanting in dignity, than
-a woman’s continuing to persecute a man who is evidently tired of
-her. He ever avoids all conversation on this topic; but with me, in
-private, I have heard a great deal, which makes me think extremely
-well of him. You know how violent Calantha is in all things:—it
-seems, in the present instance, that her love is of so mad and absurd
-a nature, that it is all he can do to prevent her coming after him.
-Such things, too, as she has told him! A woman must have a depraved
-mind, even to name such subjects.
-
-“Now, I know you will disbelieve all this; but at once to silence you.
-I have seen some passages of her letters; and more forward and guilty
-professions none ever assuredly ventured to make. Her gifts too!—he
-is quite loaded with them; and while, as he laughingly observed, one
-little remembrance from a friend is dear, to be almost bought thus is
-unbecoming, both in him to receive, and herself to offer. As to Lord
-Glenarvon, I like him more than ever. He has, indeed, the errors of
-youth; but his mind is superior, and his heart full of sensibility
-and feeling.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXVIII.
-
-
-If Glenarvon’s letters had given joy to Calantha in more prosperous
-and happier days, when surrounded by friends, what must they have
-appeared to her now, when bereft of all? They were as the light
-of Heaven to one immersed in darkness: they were as health to the
-wretch who has pined in sickness: they were as riches to the poor,
-and joy to the suffering heart. What then must have been her feelings
-when they suddenly and entirely ceased! At first, she thought the
-wind was contrary, and the mails irregular. Of one thing she felt
-secure—Glenarvon could not mean to deceive her. His last letter,
-too, was kinder than any other; and the words with which he concluded
-it were such as to inspire her with confidence. “If, by any chance,
-however improbable,” he said, “my letters fail to reach you, impute
-the delay to any cause whatever: but do me enough justice not for one
-moment to doubt of me. I will comply with every request of yours; and
-from you I require in return nothing but remembrance—the remembrance
-of one who has forgotten himself, the world, fame, hope, ambition—all
-here, and all hereafter, but you.”
-
-Every one perhaps has felt the tortures of suspense: every one knows
-its lengthened pangs: it is not necessary here to paint them. Weeks
-now passed, instead of days, and still not one line, one word from
-Glenarvon. Then it was that Lady Avondale thus addressed him:
-
-“It is in vain, my dearest friend, that I attempt to deceive myself.
-It is now two weeks since I have watched, with incessant anxiety,
-for one of those dear, those kind letters, which had power to still
-the voice of conscience, and to make one, even as unworthy as I am,
-comparatively blest. You accused me of coldness; yet I have written
-since, I fear, with only too much warmth. Alas! I have forgotten all
-the modesty and dignity due to my sex and situation, to implore for
-one line, one little line, which might inform me you were well, and
-not offended. Lord Avondale’s return, I told you, had been delayed.
-His absence, his indifference, are now my only comfort in life. Were
-it otherwise, how could I support the unmeasured guilt I have heaped
-upon my soul? The friends of my youth are estranged by my repeated
-errors and long neglect. I am as lonely, as miserable in your absence
-as you can wish.
-
-“Glenarvon, I do not reproach you: I never will. But your sudden, your
-unexpected silence, has given me more anguish than I can express. I
-will not doubt you: I will follow your last injunctions, and believe
-every thing sooner than that you will thus abandon me. If that time
-is indeed arrived—and I know how frail a possession guilty love must
-ever be—how much it is weakened by security—how much it is cooled
-by absence: do not give yourself the pain of deceiving me: there
-is no use in deceit. Say with kindness that another has gained your
-affections; but let them never incline you to treat me with cruelty.
-Oh, fear not, Glenarvon, that I shall intrude, or reproach you. I
-shall bear every affliction, if you but soften the pang to me by one
-soothing word.
-
-“Now, possibly, when you receive this, you will laugh at me for my
-fears: you will say I but echo back those which you indulged. But so
-sudden is the silence, so long the period of torturing suspense, that
-I must tremble till I receive one line from your dearest hand—one line
-to say that you are not offended with me. Remember that you are all
-on earth to me; and if I lose that for which I have paid so terrible
-a price, what then will be my fate!
-
-“I dread that you should have involved yourself seriously. Alas! I
-dread for you a thousand things that I dare not say. My friend, we
-have been very wicked. It is myself alone I blame. On me, on me be
-the crime; but if my life could save you, how gladly would I give
-it up! Oh, cannot we yet repent! Act well, Glenarvon: be not in love
-with crime: indeed, indeed, I tremble for you. It is not inconstancy
-that I fear. Whatever your errors may be, whatever fate be mine, my
-heart cannot be severed from you. I shall, as you have often said,
-never cease to love; but, were I to see your ruin, ah, believe me,
-it would grieve me more than my own. I am nothing, a mere cypher:
-you might be all that is great and superior. Act rightly, then, my
-friend; and hear this counsel, though it comes from one as fallen as
-I am. Think not that I wish to repine, or that I lament the past. You
-have rendered me happy: it is not you that I accuse. But, now that
-you are gone, I look with horror upon my situation; and my crimes by
-night and by day appear unvarnished before me.
-
-“I am frightened, Glenarvon: we have dared too much. I have followed
-you into a dark abyss; and now that you, my guide, my protector, have
-left my side, my former weakness returns, and all that one smile
-of yours could make me forget, oppresses and confounds me. The eye
-of God has marked me, and I sink at once. You will abandon me: that
-thought comprises all things in it. Therein lies the punishment of
-my crime; and God, they say, is just. The portrait which you have
-left with me has a stern look. Some have said that the likeness of a
-friend is preferable to himself, for that it ever smiles upon us; but
-with me it is the reverse. I never saw Glenarvon’s eyes gaze coldly
-on me till now. Farewell.
-
-                                          “Ever with respect and love,
-                                   “Your grateful, but unhappy friend,
-
-                                                           “CALANTHA.”
-
-Lady Avondale was more calm when she had thus written. The next
-morning a letter was placed in her hand. Her heart beat high. It was
-from Mortanville Priory:—but it was from Lady Trelawney, in answer
-to one she had sent her, and not from Glenarvon.
-
-“Dearest cousin,” said Lady Trelawney, “I have not had time to
-write to you one word before. Of all the places I ever was at, this
-is the most perfectly delightful. Had I a spice in me of romance, I
-would attempt to describe it; but, in truth, I cannot. Tell Sophia
-we expect her for certain next week; and, if you wish to be diverted
-from all black thoughts, join our party. I received your gloomy
-letter after dinner. I was sitting on a couch by ——, shall I tell
-you by whom?—by Lord Glenarvon himself. At the moment in which it
-was delivered, for the post comes in here at nine in the evening, he
-smiled a little as he recognized the hand; and, when I told him you
-were ill, that smile became an incredulous laugh; for he knows well
-enough people are never so ill as they say. Witness himself: he is
-wonderfully recovered: indeed, he is grown perfectly delightful. I
-thought him uncommonly stupid all this summer, which I attribute now
-to you; for you encouraged him in his whims and woes. Here, at least,
-he is all life and good humour. Lady Augusta says he is not the same
-man; but sentiment, she affirms, undermines any constitution; and
-you are rather too much in that style.
-
-“After all, my dear cousin, it is silly to make yourself unhappy about
-any man. I dare say you thought Lord Glenarvon very amiable: so do
-I:—and you fancied he was in love with you, as they call it; and I
-could fancy the same: and there is one here, I am sure, may fancy it as
-well as any of us: but it is so absurd to take these things seriously.
-It is his manner; and he owns himself that a _grande passion_ bores
-him to death; and that if you will but leave him alone, he finds a
-little absence has entirely restored his senses.
-
-“By the bye, did you give him ... but that is a secret. Only I much
-suspect that he has made over all that you have given him to another.
-Do the same by him, therefore; and have enough pride to shew him that
-you are not so weak and so much in his power as he imagines. I shall
-be quite provoked if you write any more to him. He shews all your
-letters: I tell you this as a friend: only, now, pray do not get me
-into a scrape, or repeat it.
-
-“Do tell me when Lord Avondale returns. They say there has been a real
-rising in the north: but Trelawney thinks people make a great deal
-of nothing at all: he says, for his part, he believes it is all talk
-and nonsense. We are going to London, where I hope you will meet us.
-Good bye to you, dear coz. Write merrily, and as you used. My motto,
-you know, is, laugh whilst you can, and be grave when you must. I
-have written a long letter to my mother and Sophia; but do not ask
-to see it. Indeed, I would tell you all, if I were not afraid you’d
-be so foolish as to vex yourself about what cannot be helped.”
-
-Lady Avondale did vex herself; and this letter from Frances made her
-mad. The punishment of crime was then at hand:—Glenarvon had betrayed,
-had abandoned her. Yet was it possible, or was it not the malice of
-Frances who wished to vex her? Calantha could not believe him false.
-He had not been to her as a common lover:—he was true: she felt
-assured he was; yet her agitation was very great. Perhaps he had been
-misled, and he feared to tell her. Could she be offended, because he
-had been weak? Oh, no! he knew she could not: he would never betray
-her secrets; he would never abandon her, because a newer favourite
-employed his momentary thoughts. She felt secure he would not, and
-she was calm.
-
-Lady Avondale walked to Belfont. She called upon many of her former
-friends; but they received her coldly. She returned to the castle;
-but every eye that met her’s appeared to view her with new marks of
-disapprobation. Guilt, when bereft of support, is ever reprobated; but
-see it decked in splendour and success, and where are they who shrink
-from its approach? Calantha’s name was the theme of just censure,
-but in Glenarvon’s presence, who had discovered that she was thus
-worthless and degraded? And did they think she did not feel their
-meanness. The proud heart is the first to sink before contempt—it
-feels the wound more keenly than any other can.
-
-O, there is nothing in language that can express the deep humiliation
-of being received with coldness, when kindness is expected—of seeing
-the look, but half concealed, of strong disapprobation from such
-as we have cause to feel beneath us, not alone in vigour of mind
-and spirit, but even in virtue and truth. The weak, the base, the
-hypocrite, are the first to turn with indignation from their fellow
-mortals in disgrace; and, whilst the really chaste and pure suspect
-with caution, and censure with mildness, these traffickers in petty
-sins, who plume themselves upon their immaculate conduct, sound the
-alarum bell at the approach of guilt, and clamour their anathemas
-upon their unwary and cowering prey.
-
-For once they felt justly; and in this instance their conduct was
-received without resentment. There was a darker shade on the brow,
-an assumed distance of manner, a certain studied civility, which
-seemed to say, that, by favour, Lady Avondale was excused much; that
-the laws of society would still admit her; that her youth, her rank
-and high connexions, were considerations which everted from her that
-stigmatising brand, her inexcusable behaviour otherwise had drawn
-down: but still the mark was set upon her, and she felt its bitterness
-the more, because she knew how much it had been deserved.
-
-Yet of what avail were the reproving looks of friends, the bitter
-taunts of companions, whom long habit had rendered familiar, the
-ill-timed menaces and rough reproaches of some, and the innuendoes and
-scornful jests of others? They only tended to harden a mind rendered
-fierce by strong passion, and strengthen the natural violence of a
-character which had set all opposition at defiance, and staked every
-thing upon one throw—which had been unused to refuse itself the
-smallest gratification, and knew not how to endure the first trial to
-which it ever had been exposed. Kindness had been the only remaining
-hope; and kindness, such as the human heart can scarce believe in,
-was shewn in vain. Yet the words which are so spoken seldom fail to
-sooth. Even when on the verge of ruin, the devoted wretch will turn
-and listen to the accents which pity and benevolence vouchsafe to
-utter; and though they may come too late, her last looks and words
-may bless the hand that was thus stretched out to save her.
-
-It was with such looks of grateful affection that Lady Avondale turned
-to Mrs. Seymour, when she marked the haughty frowns of Lady Margaret,
-and the cold repulsive glance with which many others received her. Yet
-still she lived upon the morrow; and, with an anguish that destroyed
-her, watched, vainly watched, for every returning post. Daily she
-walked to that accustomed spot—that dear, that well-known spot, where
-often and often she had seen and heard the man who then would have
-given his very existence to please; and the remembrance of his love,
-of his promises, in some measure re-assured her.
-
-One evening, as she wandered there, she met St. Clara, who passed her
-in haste, whilst a smile of exulting triumph lighted her countenance.
-Lady Avondale sighed, and seated herself upon the fragment of a rock;
-but took no other notice of her. There was a blaze of glorious light
-diffused over the calm scene, and the gloomy battlements of Belfont
-Priory yet shone with the departing ray. When Calantha arose to
-depart, she turned from the golden light which illuminated the west,
-and gazed in agony upon the spot where it was her custom to meet her
-lover. The vessels passed to and fro upon the dark blue sea; the
-sailors cheerfully followed their nightly work; and the peasants,
-returning from the mountains with their flocks, sung cheerfully as
-they approached their homes. Calantha had no home to return to; no
-approving eye to bid her welcome: her heart was desolate. She met
-with an aged man, whose white locks flowed, and whose air was that
-of deep distress. He looked upon her. He asked charity of her as he
-passed: he said that he was friendless, and alone in the world. His
-name she asked: he replied, “Camioli.” “If gold can give you peace,
-take this,” she said. He blessed her: he called her all goodness—all
-loveliness; and he prayed for her to his God. “Oh, God of mercy!” said
-Calantha, “hear the prayer of the petitioner: grant me the blessing
-he has asked for me. I never more can pray. He little knows the pang
-he gave. He calls me good: alas! that name and Calantha’s are parted
-for ever.”
-
-     Poor wretch! who hast nothing to hope for in life,
-     But the mercy of hearts long success has made hard.
-     No parent hast thou, no fond children, no wife,
-     Thine age from distress and misfortune to guard.
-
-     Yet the trifle I gave, little worth thy possessing,
-     Has call’d forth in thee, what I cannot repay:
-     Thou hast ask’d of thy God for his favour and blessing;
-     Thou hast pray’d for the sinner, who never must pray.
-
-     Old man, if those locks, which are silver’d by time,
-     Have ne’er been dishonor’d by guilt or excess;
-     If when tempted to wrong, thou hast fled from the crime;
-     By passion unmov’d, unappall’d by distress:
-
-     If through life thou hast follow’d the course that is fair,
-     And much hast perform’d, though of little possess’d;
-     Then the God of thy fathers shall favour the prayer,
-     And a blessing be sent to a heart now unblest.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXIX.
-
-
-Lady Avondale wrote again and again to Glenarvon. All that a woman
-would repress, all that she once feared to utter, she now ventured
-to write. “Glenarvon,” she said, “if I have displeased you, let me
-at least be told my fault by you: you who have had power to lead me
-to wrong, need not doubt your influence if you would now but advise
-me to return to my duty. Say it but gently—speak but kindly to me,
-and I will obey every wish of yours. But perhaps that dreaded moment
-is arrived, and you are no longer constant and true. Ah! fear not
-one reproach from me. I told you how it must end; and I will never
-think the worse of you for being as all men are. But do not add
-cruelty to inconstancy. Let me hear from your own lips that you are
-changed. I but repeat your words, when once my letters failed to reach
-you—suspense, you then said, was torture: and will you now expose me
-to those sufferings which you even knew not how to endure? Let no one
-persuade you to treat her with cruelty, who, whatever your conduct
-may be, will never cease to honour and to love you.
-
-“Forgive, if too presumptuous, I have written with flippant gaiety,
-or thoughtless folly. Say I have been to blame; but do not you,
-Glenarvon, do not you be my accuser. You are surrounded by those who
-possess beauty and talents, far, far above any which I can boast;
-but all I had it in my power to give, I offered you; and, however
-little worth, no one can bear to have that all rejected with contempt
-and ingratitude. And are they endeavouring to blacken me in your
-opinion? and do they call this acting honourably and fairly? Lady
-Trelawney perhaps—ah! no, I will not believe it. Besides, had they
-the inclination, have they the power to engage you to renounce me thus?
-
-“Glenarvon, my misery is at the utmost. If you could but know what I
-suffer at this moment, you would pity me. O leave me not thus: I cannot
-bear it. Expose me not to every eye: drive me not to desperation.
-This suspense is agonizing: this sudden, this protracted silence is
-too hard to bear. Every one does, every one must, despise me: the
-good opinion of the wise and just, I have lost for ever; but do not
-you abandon me, or if you must, oh let it be from your own mouth
-at least that I read my doom. Say that you love another—say it, if
-indeed it is already so; and I will learn to bear it. Write it but
-kindly. Tell me I shall still be your friend. I will not upbraid you:
-no grief of mine shall make me forget your former kindness. Oh no, I
-will never learn to hate or reproach you, however you may think fit
-to trample upon me. I will bless your name with my last breath—call
-you even from the grave, where you have sent me—only turn one look,
-one last dear look to me.”
-
-Such was her letter. At another time she thus again addressed him:
-
-“Glenarvon, my only hope in life, drive me not at once to desperation.
-Alas! why do I write thus? You are ill perhaps? or my friends
-surrounding you, have urged you to this? In such case, remember my
-situation. Say but kindly that my letters are no longer a solace
-to you, and I will of myself cease to write; but do not hurl me at
-once from adoration to contempt and hate. Do not throw me off, and
-doom me to sudden, to certain perdition. Glenarvon, have mercy. Let
-compassion, if love has ceased, impel you to show me some humanity.
-I know it is degrading thus to write. I ought to be silent, and to
-feel that if you have the heart to treat me with harshness, it is
-lowering myself still further thus to sue. But oh! my God, it is no
-longer time to think of dignity—to speak of what is right. I have
-fallen to the lowest depth. You, you are the first to teach me how
-low, how miserably I am fallen. I forsook every thing for you. I would
-have followed you; and you know it. But for yours and other’s sake,
-I would have sacrificed all—all to you. Alas! I have already done so.
-
-“If you should likewise turn against me—if you for whom so much is
-lost, should be the first to despise me, how can I bear up under it.
-Dread the violence of my feelings—the agonizing pang, the despair of
-a heart so lost, and so betrayed. Oh, write but one line to me. Say
-that another has engaged you to forsake me—that you will love me no
-more; but that as a friend you will still feel some affection, some
-interest for me. I am ill, Glenarvon. God knows I do not affect it,
-to touch you. Such guilt as mine, and so much bitter misery!—how can
-I bear up under it? Oh pity the dread, the suspense I endure. You
-know not what a woman feels when remorse, despair and the sudden loss
-of him she loves, assail her at once.
-
-“I have seen, I have heard of cruelty, and falsehood: but you,
-Glenarvon—oh you who are so young, so beautiful, can you be inhuman?
-It breaks my heart to think so. Why have you not the looks, as well
-as the heart of a villain? Oh why take such pains, such care, to
-lull me into security, to dispel every natural fear and suspicion, a
-heart that loves must harbour, only to plunge me deeper in agony—to
-destroy me with more refined and barbarous cruelty? Jest not with my
-sufferings. God knows they are acute and real. I feel even for myself
-when I consider what I am going to endure. Oh spare one victim at
-least. Generously save me: I ask you not to love me. Only break to
-me yourself this sudden change—tell me my fate, from that dear mouth
-which has so often sworn never, never to abandon me.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXX.
-
-
-Days again passed in fruitless expectation; nights, in unceasing
-wakefulness and grief. At length one morning, a letter was put into
-Lady Avondale’s hands. It was from Glenarvon. It is impossible to
-describe the joy, the transport of that moment; nor how, pressing it
-to her lips, she returned thanks to God for receiving, what it was a
-crime against that Being thus to value. She glanced her eye over the
-superscription; but she durst not open it. She dreaded lest some cause
-should be assigned for so long a silence, which might appear less
-kind than what she could easily endure. The seal was not his seal;
-and the black wax, so constantly his custom to use, was exchanged for
-red. The motto upon the seal (for lovers attend to all) was not that
-which at all times he made use of when addressing Calantha. It was
-a seal she knew too well. A strange foreboding that he was changed,
-filled her mind. She was prepared for the worst, as she apprehended.
-At last she broke the seal; but she was not prepared for the following
-words written by his own hand, and thus addressed to her. Oh! had he
-the heart to write them?
-
-                                 Mortanville Priory, November the 9th.
-
-Lady Avondale,
-
-I am no longer your lover; and since you oblige me to confess it,
-by this truly unfeminine persecution,—learn, that I am attached to
-another; whose name it would of course be dishonourable to mention. I
-shall ever remember with gratitude the many instances I have received
-of the predilection you have shewn in my favour. I shall ever continue
-your friend, if your ladyship will permit me so to style myself; and,
-as a first proof of my regard, I offer you this advice, correct your
-vanity, which is ridiculous; exert your absurd caprices upon others;
-and leave me in peace.
-
-                                           Your most obedient servant,
-
-                                                            GLENARVON.
-
-This letter was sealed and directed by Lady Mandeville; but the hand
-that wrote it was Lord Glenarvon’s; and therefore it had its full
-effect. Yes; it went as it was intended, to the very heart; and the
-wound thus given, was as deep as the most cruel enemy could have
-desired. The grief of a mother for the loss of her child has been
-described, though the hand of the painter fails ever in expressing
-the agonies of that moment. The sorrows of a mistress when losing
-the lover she adores, has been the theme of every age. Poetry and
-painting, have exhausted the expression of her despair, and painted
-to the life, that which themselves could conceive—could feel and
-understand. Every one can sympathise with their sufferings; and that
-which others commiserate, is felt with less agony by ourselves. But
-who can sympathize with guilt, or who lament the just reward of crime?
-
-There is a pang, beyond all others—a grief, which happily for human
-nature few have been called upon to encounter. It is when an erring
-but not hardened heart, worked up to excess of passion, idolized
-and flattered into security, madly betraying every sacred trust,
-receives all unlooked for, from the hand it adores, the dreadful
-punishment which its crime deserves. And, if there can be a degree
-still greater of agony, shew to the wretch who sinks beneath the
-unexpected blow—shew her, in the person of her only remaining friend
-and protector, the husband she has betrayed—the lover of her youth!
-Oh shew him unsuspicious, faithful, kind; and do not judge her, if
-at such moment, the dream dispelled, frantic violence impelling her
-to acts of desperation and madness, lead her rash hand to attempt
-her miserable life. Where, but in death can such outcast seek refuge
-from shame, remorse and all the bitterness of despair? Where but
-in death? Oh, God; it is no coward’s act! The strength of momentary
-passion may nerve the arm for so rash a deed; but faint hearts will
-sicken at the thought.
-
-Calantha durst not—no, she durst not strike the blow. She seized the
-sharp edged knife, and tried its force. It was not pain she feared.
-Pain, even to extremity, she already felt. But one single blow—one
-instant, and all to be at an end. A trembling horror seized upon her
-limbs: the life-blood chilled around her heart. She feared to die.
-Pain, even to agony, were better than thus to brave Omnipotence—to
-rush forward uncalled into that state of which no certain end is
-known: to snatch destiny into our own power, and draw upon ourselves,
-in one instant of time, terrors and punishments above the boundless
-apprehension even of an evil imagination to conceive.
-
-Calantha’s eye, convulsed and fixed, perceived not the objects which
-surrounded her. Her thoughts, quick as the delirious dream of fever,
-varied with new and dreadful pictures of calamity. It was the last
-struggle of nature.—The spirit within her trembled at approaching
-dissolution.—The shock was too great for mortal reason to resist.
-Glenarvon—Glenarvon! that form—that look alone appeared to awaken
-her recollection, but all else was confusion and pain.
-
-It was a scene of horror. May it for ever be blotted from the
-remembrance of the human heart! It claims no sympathy: it was the
-dreadful exhibition of a mind which passion had misled, and reason
-had ceased to guide. Calantha bowed not before that Being who had seen
-fit to punish her in his wrath. She sought nor vengeance, nor future
-hope. All was lost for her; and with Glenarvon, every desire in life,
-every aspiring energy vanished. Overpowered, annihilated, she called
-for mercy and release. She felt that mortal passion domineered over
-reason; and, after one desperate struggle for mastery, had conquered
-and destroyed her.
-
-Her father watched over and spoke to her. Mrs. Seymour endeavoured to
-awaken her to some sense of her situation:—she spoke to her of her
-husband. Calantha! when reason had ceased to guide thee, she called
-to sooth, to warn thee, but thou could’st not hear. That voice of
-conscience, that voice of truth, which in life’s happier day thou
-had’st rejected, now spoke in vain; and thy rash steps hurried on to
-seek the termination of thy mad career.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXI.
-
-
-When the very soul is annihilated by some sudden and unexpected evil,
-the outward frame is calm—no appearance of emotion, of tears, of
-repining, gives notice of the approaching evil. Calantha motionless,
-re-perused Glenarvon’s letter, and spoke with gentleness to those
-who addressed her. Oh! did the aunt that loved her, as she read that
-barbarous letter, exhibit equal marks of fortitude? No: in tears, in
-reproaches, she vented her indignation: but still Calantha moved not.
-
-There is a disease which it is terrible to name. Ah, see you not its
-symptoms in the wild eye of your child. Dread, dread the violence of
-her uncurbed passions, of an imagination disordered and overpowered.
-Madness to frenzy has fallen upon her. What tumult, what horror, reigns
-in that mind: how piercing were the shrieks she uttered: how hollow
-the cry that echoed Glenarvon’s name! Lady Margaret held her to her
-bosom, and folded her arms around her. No stern looks upbraided her
-for her crimes: all was kindness unutterable—goodness that stabbed to
-the heart. And did she turn from such indulgence—did her perverted
-passions still conquer every better feeling, as even on a bed of
-death her last hope was love—her last words Glenarvon!
-
-Sophia approached Calantha with words of kindness and religion;
-but the words of religion offered no balm to a mind estranged and
-utterly perverted. Her cheeks were pale, and her hollow eyes, glazed
-and fixed, turned from the voice of comfort. Mrs. Seymour placed her
-children near her; but with tears of remorse she heard them speak,
-and shrunk from their caresses. And still it was upon Glenarvon that
-she called. Yet when certain death was expected, or far worse, entire
-loss of reason, she by slow degrees recovered.
-
-There is a recovery from disease which is worse than death; and it
-was her destiny to prove it. She loved her own sorrow too well: she
-cherished every sad remembrance: she became morose, absorbed, and
-irritated to frenzy, if intruded upon. All virtue is blighted in such
-a bosom—all principle gone. It feeds upon its own calamity. Hope
-nothing from the miserable: a broken heart is a sepulchre in which
-the ruin of every thing that is noble and fair is enshrined.
-
-That which causes the tragic end of a woman’s life, is often but a
-moment of amusement and folly in the history of a man. Women, like
-toys, are sought after, and trifled with, and then thrown by with
-every varying caprice. Another, and another still succeed; but to
-each thus cast away, the pang has been beyond thought, the stain
-indelible, and the wound mortal. Glenarvon had offered his heart to
-another. He had given the love gifts—the chains and the rings which
-he had received from Calantha, to his new favourite. Her letters he
-had shewn; her secrets he had betrayed; to an enemy’s bosom he had
-betrayed the struggles of a guilty heart, tortured with remorse, and
-yet at that time at least but too true, and faithful to him. ’Twas
-the letters written in confidence which he shewed! It was the secret
-thoughts of a soul he had torn from virtue and duty to follow him,
-that he betrayed!
-
-And to whom did he thus expose her errors?—To the near relations of her
-husband, to the friends, and companions of her youth; and instead of
-throwing a veil upon the weakness he himself had caused, when doubt,
-remorse and terror had driven her to acts of desperation. Instead
-of dropping one tear of pity over a bleeding, breaking heart, he
-committed those testimonies of her guilt, and his own treachery, into
-the hands of incensed and injured friends. They were human: they saw
-but what he would have them see: they knew but what he wished them to
-know: they censured her already, and rather believed his plausible
-and gentle words, than the frantic rhapsodies of guilt and passion.
-They read the passages but half communicated; they heard the insidious
-remarks; they saw the letters in which themselves were misrepresented
-and unkindly named; nor knew the arts which had been made use of to
-alienate Calantha. They espoused the cause of Glenarvon, and turned
-with anger and contempt against one whom they now justly despised.
-Even Sophia, whom the terror of despair had one moment softened—even
-Sophia, had not long been in the society of Glenarvon after her
-arrival in England, when she also changed; so powerful were the
-arguments which he used to persuade her; or so easily tranquillized
-is resentment when we ourselves are not sufferers from the injury.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXII.
-
-
-On quitting Castle Delaval, Lord Glenarvon went as he had promised,
-to Mr. Monmouth’s seat in Wales, by name, Mortanville Priory.
-There, in a large and brilliant society, he soon forgot Calantha.
-Lady Augusta rallied him for his caprice; Lady Mandeville sought to
-obtain his confidence: tears and reproaches are ever irksome; and
-the confidence that had once been placed in a former mistress, now
-suddenly withdrawn, was wholly given to her. A petitioner is at all
-times intrusive; and sorrow at a distance but serves to encrease the
-coldness and inconstancy it upbraids. The contrast is great between
-smiling and triumphant beauty, and remorse, misery and disgrace.
-And, if every reason here enumerated were insufficient, to account
-for a lover’s inconstancy, it is enough in one word to say, that
-Lady Avondale was absent; for Lord Glenarvon was of a disposition to
-attend so wholly to those, in whose presence he took delight, that he
-failed to remember those to whom he had once been attached; so that
-like the wheels of a watch, the chains of his affections might be said
-to unwind from the absent, in proportion as they twined themselves
-around the favourite of the moment; and being extreme in all things,
-he could not sufficiently devote himself to the one, without taking
-from the other all that he had given.
-
-’Twere vain to detail the petty instances of barbarity he made use
-of. The web was fine enough, and wove with a skilful hand. He even
-consulted with Lady Mandeville in what manner to make his inhuman
-triumph more poignant—more galling; and when he heard that Calantha
-was irritated even unto madness, and grieved almost unto death, he only
-mocked at her for her folly, and despised her for her still remaining
-attachment to himself. “Indeed she is ill,” said Sophia, in answer to
-his insulting enquiry, soon after her arrival at Mortanville Priory.
-“She is even dangerously ill.” “And pray may I ask of what malady?”
-he replied, with a smile of scorn. “Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she
-answered with equal irony, “which never will endanger your health—of
-a broken heart.” He laughed. “Of deep remorse,” she continued. “And no
-regret?” said he, looking archly at her. “Do not jest,” she retorted:
-“the misery which an unhallowed attachment must in itself inflict,
-is sufficient, I should think, without adding derision to every other
-feeling.” “Does Miss Seymour speak from experience or conjecture?”
-
-Before Miss Seymour could answer, Lady Mandeville, who was present,
-whispered something to Glenarvon; and he laughed. Sophia asked eagerly
-what she was saying. “It is a secret,” said Glenarvon significantly.
-“How happy must Lady Mandeville be at this moment!” said Lady Augusta,
-“for every one knows that the greatest enjoyment the human mind can
-feel, is when we are in the act of betraying a secret confided to us
-by a friend, or informing an enemy of something upon which the life
-and safety of another depends.” “Come,” said Lady Mandeville, “you
-are very severe; but I was only urging Lord Glenarvon to listen to
-Miss Seymour’s admonitions in a less public circle. Miss Monmouth
-may be displeased if she hears of all this whispering.” So saying,
-she took Glenarvon’s arm, and they walked out of the room together.
-
-“After all, he is a glorious creature,” said Lady Trelawney. “I wish
-I had a glorious creature to walk with me this morning,” said Lady
-Augusta with a sneer; “but how can I hope for support, when Calantha,
-who had once thousands to defend her, and whom I left the gayest where
-all were gay, is now dying alone, upbraided, despised, and deserted.
-Where are her friends?” “She fell by her own fault entirely,” said
-Lord Trelawney. “Her life has been one course of absurdity. A crime
-here and there are nothing, I well know,” said Lady Augusta; “but
-imprudence and folly, who can pardon?” “She has a kind heart,” said
-Frances. “Kind enough to some,” said her lord; “but talk not of her,
-for I feel indignant at her very name.” “There is nothing excites our
-indignation so strongly,” said Lady Augusta, “as misfortune. Whilst
-our friends are healthy, rich, happy, and, above all, well dressed
-and gaily attended, they are delightful, adorable. After all, your
-sensible judicious people on the long run are the best: they keep a
-good eye to their own interest; and these flighty ones are sure to
-get into scrapes. When they do, we flatterers have an awkward part to
-play: we must either turn short about, as is the case now, or stand
-up in a bad cause, for which none of us have heart or spirit.” “There
-is no excuse for Calantha,” said Miss Seymour. “God forbid I should
-look for one,” said Lady Augusta. “I am like a deer, and ever fly
-with the herd: there is no excuse, Miss Seymour, ever, for those who
-are wounded and bleeding and trodden upon. I could tell you—but here
-come these glorious creatures! Are you aware, that when Lady Avondale
-sent a few days since for her lover’s portrait, and a lock of his
-hair, Lady Mandeville yesterday in an envelope enclosed a braid of her
-own. _C’est piquant cela: j’admire!_” “How illnatured the world is!”
-said Miss Monmouth, who had heard the latter part of this discourse.
-“Not illnatured or wicked, my dear,” said Lady Augusta; “only weak,
-cowardly and inordinately stupid.” “With what self-satisfaction every
-one triumphs at the fall of those whose talents or situation raise
-them a little into observation!” said Miss Monmouth. “Common sense is
-so pleased,” said Lady Augusta, “when it sees of how little use any
-other sense is in this life, that one must forgive its triumph; and
-its old saws and wholesome truisms come out with such an increase of
-length and weight, when the enemy to its peace has tumbled down before
-it, that it were vain to attempt a defence of the culprit condemned.
-I know the world too well to break through any of the lesser rules
-and customs imposed, but you, my dear, know nothing yet: therefore
-I cannot talk to you.”
-
-Miss Monmouth was the only child of the Honorable Mr. Monmouth, a near
-relation of Lady Mowbrey’s. Her youth, her innocence, a certain charm
-of manner and of person, rare and pleasing, had already, apparently,
-made some impression upon Glenarvon. He had secretly paid her every
-most marked attention. He had even made her repeatedly the most
-honourable offers. At first, trembling and suspicious, she repulsed
-the man of whom rumour had spoken much, which her firm principles
-and noble generous heart disapproved; but soon attracted and subdued
-by the same all splendid talents, she heard him with more favourable
-inclinations. She was, herself, rich in the possession of every
-virtue and grace; but, alas! too soon she was over-reached by the
-same fascination and disguise which had imposed upon every other.
-
-Amongst the many suitors who at this time appeared to claim Miss
-Monmouth’s hand, Buchanan was the most distinguished. Lady Margaret
-eagerly desired this marriage. She put every engine to work in a moment
-to defeat Glenarvon’s views, and secure the prize for her son. She
-even left Ireland upon hearing of his increasing influence, and joined
-for a few weeks the party at Mortanville Priory. The parents of Miss
-Monmouth were as eager for Buchanan, as the young lady was averse.
-Glenarvon saw with bitterness the success his rival had obtained, and
-hated the friends and parents of Miss Monmouth for their mistrust of
-him. By day, by night, he assailed an innocent heart, not with gross
-flattery, not with vain professions. He had a mask for every distinct
-character he wished to play; and in each character he acted to the
-very life.
-
-In this instance, he threw himself upon the generous mercy of one
-who already was but too well inclined to favour him. He candidly
-acknowledged his errors; but he cast a veil over their magnitude;
-and confessed only what he wished should be known. Miss Monmouth, he
-said, should reform him; her gentle voice should recall his heart from
-perversion; her virtues should win upon a mind, which, the errors of
-youth, the world and opportunity had misled.
-
-Miss Monmouth was the idol of her family. She was pure herself, and
-therefore unsuspicious. Talents and judgment had been given her with
-no sparing hand; but to these, she added the warmest, the most generous
-heart, the strongest feelings, and a high and noble character. To save,
-to reclaim one, whose genius she admired, whose beauty attracted, was
-a task too delightful to be rejected. Thousands daily sacrifice their
-hearts to mercenary and ambitious views; thousands coldly, without
-one feeling of enthusiasm or love, sell themselves for a splendid
-name; and can there be a mind so cold, so corrupted, as to censure the
-girl, who, having rejected a Buchanan, gave her hand and heart, and
-all that she possessed, to save, to bless, and to reclaim a Glenarvon.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXIII.
-
-
-Happily for Miss Monmouth, at the very moment her consent was given,
-Lady Margaret placed a letter in Glenarvon’s hands, which threw him
-into the deepest agitation, and obliged him instantly, and for a
-short time, to hasten to England. He went there in company with Lady
-Margaret; and strange as it may appear, the love, the idolatry, he
-had professed for so many, seemed now with greater vehemence than
-for others transferred to herself. Whether from artifice or caprice,
-it is unnecessary to say, but Lady Margaret at least made shew of
-a return. She never lost sight of him for one moment. She read with
-him; she talked with him; she chided him with all the wit and grace
-of which she was mistress; and he, as if maddening in her presence,
-gazed on her with wild delight; and seemed inclined to abandon every
-thing for her sake.
-
-Lady Margaret applied to her numerous friends for the ship which had
-long been promised to Lord Glenarvon, as a reward for his former
-services. She wrote to Sir George Buchanan for his appointment;
-she spoke with eloquence of his misfortunes; and whether from her
-representations, or some other cause, his titles and estates were at
-length restored to him. Thanking her for the zeal she had shewn, he
-proposed to return with her immediately to Italy.
-
-She now hesitated. Her brother had written to her: these were the
-words of his letter: “Buchanan is desirous that his marriage should
-be celebrated in this place. Miss Monmouth, I fear, has been compelled
-to accept his hand; and I should pity her, if such force did not save
-her from a far worse fate. I mean a marriage with Glenarvon.”
-
-Glenarvon was by Lady Margaret’s side when this letter was received.
-He held one of Lady Margaret’s white hands in his: he was looking
-upon the rings she wore, and laughingly asking her if they were the
-gifts of Dartford. “Look at me, my beautiful mistress,” he said, with
-the triumph of one secure. She carelessly placed the letter before
-his eyes. “Correct your vanity,” she said, whilst he was perusing
-it, alluding to the words he had written to Calantha; “exert your
-caprices upon others more willing to bear them; and leave me in peace.”
-
-Stung to the soul, Glenarvon started; and gazed on her with malignant
-rage: then grinding his teeth with all the horror of supprest rage,
-“I am not a fly to be trodden upon, but a viper that shall sting thee
-to the heart. Farewell for ever,” he cried, rushing from her. Then
-returning one moment with calmness, and smiling on her, “you have
-not grieved me,” he said gently: “I am not angry, my fair mistress.
-We shall meet again: fear not we shall meet again.” “Now I am lost,”
-said Lady Margaret, when he was gone. “I know by that smile that my
-fate is sealed.”
-
-There is nothing so uncongenial to the sorrowing heart as gaiety
-and mirth; yet Calantha was at this time condemned to witness it.
-No sickness, no sufferings of its owners, prevented extraordinary
-festivities at the castle. Upon the evening of the celebration of
-Buchanan’s marriage, there were revels and merry-making as in happier
-times; and the peasantry and tenants, forgetful of their cabals
-and wrongs, all appeared to partake in the general festivity. The
-ribband of green was concealed beneath large bouquets of flowers; and
-healths and toasts went round with tumults of applause, regardless of
-the sorrows of the owners of the castle. The lawn was covered with
-dancers. It was a cheerful scene; and even Calantha smiled, as she
-leant upon her father’s arm, and gazed upon the joyful countenances
-which surrounded her; but it was the smile of one whose heart was
-breaking, and every tenant as he passed by and greeted her looked
-upon the father and the child, and sighed at the change which had
-taken place in the appearance of both.
-
-Suddenly, amidst the dancers, with a light foot, as if springing
-from the earth, there appeared, lovely in beauty and in youth, the
-fairest flower of Belfont. It was Miss St. Clare. No longer enveloped
-in her dark flowing mantle, she danced amidst the village maidens,
-the gayest there. She danced with all the skill of art, and all the
-grace of nature. Her dress was simple and light as the web of the
-gossamer: her ringlets, shining in the bright sun-beams, sported with
-the wind: red was her cheek as the first blush of love, or the rose
-of summer, when it opens to the sun.
-
-Upon the lake the boats, adorned with many coloured ribbands, sailed
-with the breeze. Bands of music played underneath the tents which
-were erected for refreshments. The evening was bright and cloudless.
-Elinor was the first and latest in the dance—the life and spirit of the
-joyous scene. Some shrunk back it is true at first, when they beheld
-her; but when they saw her smile, and that look of winning candour,
-which even innocence at times forgets to wear, that playful youthful
-manner, re-assured them. “Can it be possible!” said Calantha, when
-the music ceased, and the villagers dispersed—“can you indeed affect
-this gaiety, or do you feel it, St. Clare?” “I feel it,” cried the
-girl, laughing archly. “The shafts of love shall never pierce me;
-and sorrows, though they fall thicker than the rain of Heaven, shall
-never break my heart.” “Oh! teach me to endure afflictions thus. Is
-it religion that supports you?” “Religion!” St. Clare sighed.
-
-“Yon bright heaven,” she said, uplifting her eyes, “is not for me.
-The time has been, when, like you, I could have wept, and bowed
-beneath the chastening rod of adversity; but it is past. Turn you,
-and repent lady; for you are but young in sin, and the heart alone
-has wandered. Turn to that God of mercy, and he will yet receive and
-reclaim you.” A tear started into her eyes, as she spoke. “I must
-journey on; for the time allowed me is short. Death walks among us
-even now. Look at yon lordly mansion—your father’s house. Is it well
-defended from within? Are there bold hearts ready to stand forth in
-the time of need? Where is the heir of Delaval:—look to him:—even now
-they tear him from you. The fiends, the fiends are abroad:—look to
-your husband, lady—the gallant Earl of Avondale: red is the uniform
-he wears; black is the charger upon which he rides; but the blood of
-his heart shall flow. It is a bloody war we are going to: this is
-the year of horror!!! Better it were never to have been born, than
-to have lived in an age like this.”
-
-“Unhappy maniac,” said a voice from behind. It was the voice of the
-Bard Camioli: “unhappy St. Clare!” he said. She turned; but he was
-gone. Every one now surrounded Miss St. Clare, requesting her to sing.
-“Oh I cannot sing,” she replied, with tears, appealing to Calantha;
-then added lower—“my soul is in torture. That was a father’s voice,
-risen from the grave to chide me.”
-
-Calantha took her hand with tenderness; but Miss St. Clare shrunk from
-her. “Fly me,” she said, “for that which thou thinkest sweet has lost
-its savour. Oh listen not to the voice of the charmer, charm she ever
-so sweetly. Yet ere we part, my young and dear protectress, take with
-you my heart’s warm thanks and blessings; for thou hast been kind to
-the friendless—thou hast been merciful to the heart that was injured,
-and in pain. I would not wish to harm thee. May the journey of thy
-life be in the sunshine and smiles of fortune. May soft breezes waft
-thy gilded bark upon a smooth sea, to a guileless peaceful shore.
-May thy footsteps tread upon the green grass, and the violet and the
-rose spring up under thy feet.” Calantha’s pale cheeks and falling
-tears were her only answer to this prayer.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXIV.
-
-
-Camioli had been some time concealed in Ireland. He now entered his
-Brother Sir Everard’s door. Upon that night he was seized with illness,
-before he had time to explain his intentions. He had placed a bag of
-gold in the hands of his brother; and now, in the paroxysm of his
-fever, he called upon his daughter; he urged those who attended on
-him to send for her, that he might once again behold her. “I am come
-to die in the land of my father,” he said. “I have wandered on these
-shores to find if all I heard were true. Alas! it is true; and I wish
-once more to see my unhappy child—before I die.”
-
-They wrote to Elinor; they told her of her father’s words. They said:
-“Oh, Elinor, return; ungrateful child—haste thee to return. Thy father
-is taken dangerously ill. I think some of the wretches around us
-have administered poison to him. I know not where to find thee. He
-has called thrice for thee; and now he raves. Oh hasten; for in the
-frantic agony of his soul, he has cursed thee; and if thou dost not
-obey the summons, with the last breath of departing life, he will
-bequeath thee his malediction. O, Elinor, once the pride and joy
-of thy father’s heart, whom myself dedicated as a spotless offering
-before the throne of Heaven, as being too fair, too good for such a
-lowly one as me—return ere it be too late, and kneel by the bed of
-thy dying father. This is thy house. It is a parent calls, however
-unworthy; still it is one who loves thee; and should pride incline
-thee not to hear him, O how thou wilt regret it when too late—Ever,
-my child, thy affectionate, but most unhappy uncle,
-
-                                                  “EVERARD ST. CLARE.”
-
-She received not the summons—she was far distant when the letter was
-sent for her to the mountains. She received it not till noon; and
-the bard’s last hour was at hand.
-
-Miss Lauriana St. Clare then addressed her—“If any feeling of mercy
-yet warms your stubborn heart, come home to us and see your father,
-ere he breathe his last. ’Tis a fearful sight to see him: he raves for
-you, and calls you his darling and his favourite—his lost lamb, who
-has strayed from the flock, but was dearer than all the rest. Miss
-Elinor, I have little hopes of stirring your compassion; for in the
-days of babyhood you were hard and unyielding, taking your own way,
-and disdaining the counsel of such as were older and wiser than you.
-Go too, child; you have played the wanton with your fortune, and the
-hour of shame approaches.”
-
-Miss St. Clare heard not the summons—upon her horse she rode swiftly
-over the moors—it came too late—Camioli had sickened in the morning,
-and ere night, he had died.
-
-They wrote again: “Your father’s spirit has forsaken him: there is no
-recall from the grave. With his last words he bequeathed his curse
-to the favourite of his heart; and death has set its seal upon the
-legacy. The malediction of a father rests upon an ungrateful child!”
-
-Elinor stood upon the cliff near Craig Allen Bay, when her father’s
-corpse was carried to the grave. She heard the knell and the melancholy
-dirge: she saw the procession as it passed: she stopped its progress,
-and was told that her father in his last hour had left her his
-malediction. Many were near her, and flattered her at the time; but
-she heard them not.
-
-Elinor stood on the barren cliff, to feel, as she said, the morning
-dew and fresh mountain air on her parched forehead. “My brain beats
-as if to madden me:—the fires of hell consume me:—it is a father’s
-curse,” she cried; and her voice, in one loud and dreadful shriek,
-rent the air. “Oh it is a father’s curse:” then pausing with a fixed
-and horrid eye: “Bear it, winds of heaven, and dews of earth,” she
-cried: “bear it to false Glenarvon:—hear it, fallen angel, in the dull
-night, when the hollow wind shakes your battlements and your towers,
-and shrieks as it passes by, till it affrights your slumbers:—hear
-it in the morn, when the sun breaks through the clouds, and gilds
-with its beams of gold the eastern heavens:—hear it when the warbling
-skylark, soaring to the skies, thrills with its pipe, and every note
-of joy sound in thy ear as the cry of woe. The old man is dead, and
-gone: he will be laid low in the sepulchre: his bones shall be whiter
-than his grey hairs. He left his malediction upon his child. May it
-rest with thee, false Glenarvon. Angel of beauty, light, and delight
-of the soul, thou paradise of joys unutterable from which my heart is
-banished, thou God whom I have worshipped with sacrilegious incense,
-hear it and tremble. Amidst revels and feastings, in the hour of love,
-when passion beats in every pulse, when flatterers kneel, and tell
-thee thou art great, when a servile world bowing before thee weaves
-the laurel wreath of glory around thy brows, when old men forget
-their age and dignity to worship thee, and kings and princes tremble
-before the scourge of thy wit—think on the cry of the afflicted—the
-last piercing cry of agonizing and desperate despair. Hear it, as
-it shrieks in the voice of the tempest, or bellows from the vast
-fathomless ocean; and when they tell thee thou art great, when they
-tell thee thou art good, remember thy falsehood, thy treachery. Oh
-remember it and shudder, and say to thyself thou art worthless, and
-laugh at the flatterers that would deny it.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXV.
-
-
-Nothing is more mistaken than to suppose that unkindness and severity
-are the means of reclaiming an offender. There is no moment in which
-we are more insensible to our own errors than when we smart under
-apparent injustice. Calantha saw Glenarvon triumphant, and herself
-deserted. The world, it is true, still befriended her; but her nearest
-relatives and friends supported him. Taunted with her errors, betrayed,
-scorned, and trampled upon, the high spirit of her character arose in
-proportion as every hope was cut off. She became violent, overbearing,
-untractable even to her attendants, demanding a more than ordinary
-degree of respect, from the suspicion that it might no longer be
-paid. Every error of her life was now canvassed, and brought forth
-against her. Follies and absurdities long forgotten, were produced
-to view, to aggravate her present disgrace; and the severity which
-an offended world forbore to shew, Sophia, Frances, the Princess of
-Madagascar, Lady Mandeville, and Lord Glenarvon, were eager to evince.
-
-But, even at this hour, Calantha had reason to acknowledge the kindness
-and generosity of some; and the poor remembered her in their prayers.
-Those whom she had once protected, flew forward to support her; and
-even strangers addressed her with looks, if not words of consolation.
-It was not the gay, the professing, the vain that shewed compassion in
-a moment of need—it was not the imprudent and vicious whom Calantha
-had stood firm by and defended: these were the first to desert her.
-But it was the good, the pious, the benevolent, who came to her, and
-even courted an acquaintance they once had shunned; for their hope
-was now to reclaim.
-
-Humbled, not yet sufficiently, but miserable, her fair name blasted,
-the jest of fools, the theme of triumphant malice, Calantha still gave
-vent to every furious passion, and openly rebelled against those who
-had abandoned her. She refused to see any one, to hear any admonitions,
-and, sickening at every contradiction to her authority, insisted
-upon doing things the most ill judged and unreasonable, to shew her
-power, or her indignation. Struck with horror at her conduct, every
-one now wrote to inform Lord Avondale of the absolute necessity of his
-parting from her. Hints were not only given, but facts were held up
-to view, and a life of folly, concluding in crime, was painted with
-every aggravation. Calantha knew not at this time the eager zeal that
-some had shewn, to hurl just vengeance upon a self-devoted victim.
-She was informed therefore of Lord Avondale’s expected return, and
-prepared to receive him with hardened and desperate indifference.
-
-She feared not pain, nor death: the harshest words occasioned her
-no humiliation: the scorn, the abhorrence of companions and friends,
-excited no other sentiment in her mind than disgust. Menaced by every
-one, she still forbore to yield, and boldly imploring if she were
-guilty, to be tried by the laws of her country—laws, which though
-she had transgressed, she revered, and would submit to, she defied
-the insolence, and malice of private interference.
-
-From this state, Calantha was at length aroused by the return of Lord
-Avondale. It has been said, that the severest pang to one not wholly
-hardened, is the unsuspicious confidence of the friend whom we have
-betrayed, the look of radiant health and joy which we never more
-must share, that eye of unclouded virtue, that smile of a heart at
-rest, and, worse than all perhaps, the soft confiding words and fond
-caresses offered after long absence. Cruel is such suffering. Such
-a pang Calantha had already once endured, when last she had parted
-from her lord; and for such meeting she was again prepared. She had
-been ill, and no one had read the secret of her soul. She had been
-lonely, and no one comforted her in her hours of solitude: she had
-once loved Lord Avondale, but absence and neglect had entirely changed
-her. She prepared therefore for the interview with cold indifference,
-and her pride disdained to crave his forgiveness, or to acknowledge
-itself undeserving in his presence. “He is no longer my husband,” she
-repeated daily to herself. “My heart and his are at variance—severed
-by inclination, though unhappily for both united by circumstances.
-Let him send me from him: I am desperate and care not.”
-
-None sufficiently consider, when they describe the hateful picture of
-crime, how every step taken in its mazy road, perverts, and petrifies
-the feeling. Calantha, in long retrospect over her former life, thought
-only of the neglect and severity of him she had abandoned. She dwelt
-with pleasure upon the remembrance of every momentary act of violence,
-and thought of his gaiety and merriment, as of a sure testimony that
-he was not injured by her ill conduct. “He left me first,” she said.
-“He loves me not; he is happy; I alone suffer.” And the consolation
-she derived from such reflections steeled her against every kindlier
-sentiment.
-
-Lord Avondale returned. There was no look of joy in his countenance—no
-radiant heartfelt smile which bounding spirits and youthful ardour
-once had raised. His hollow eye betokened deep anxiety; his wasted
-form, the suffering he had endured. Oh, can it be said that the
-greatest pang to a heart, not yet entirely hardened, is unsuspicious
-confidence? Oh, can the momentary selfish pang a cold dissembling
-hypocrite may feel, be compared to the unutterable agony of such a
-meeting? Conscience itself must shrink beneath the torture of every
-glance. There is the record of crime—there, in every altered lineament
-of that well known face. How pale the withered cheek—how faint the
-smile that tries to make light and conceal the evil under which the
-soul is writhing.
-
-And could Calantha see it, and yet live? Could she behold him kind,
-compassionating, mournful, and yet survive it? No—no frenzy of despair,
-no racking pains of ill requited love, no, not all that sentiment and
-romance can paint or fancy, were ever equal to that moment. Before
-severity, she had not bowed—before contempt, she had not shed one
-tear—against every menace, she felt hardened; but, in the presence of
-that pale and altered brow, she sunk at once. With grave but gentle
-earnestness, he raised her from the earth. She durst not look upon
-him. She could not stand the reproachful glances of that eye, that
-dark eye which sometimes softened into love, then flamed again into
-the fire of resentment. She knelt not for mercy: she prayed not for
-pardon: a gloomy pride supported her; and the dark frown that lowered
-over his features was answered by the calm of fixed despair.
-
-They were alone. Lord Avondale, upon arriving, had sought her in her
-own apartment: he had heard of her illness. The duke had repeatedly
-implored him to return; he had at length tardily obeyed the summons.
-After a silence of some moments: “Have I deserved this?” he cried.
-“Oh Calantha, have I indeed deserved it?” She made no answer to this
-appeal. “There was a time,” he said, “when I knew how to address
-you—when the few cares and vexations, that ever intruded themselves,
-were lightened by your presence; and forgotten in the kindness and
-sweetness of your conversation. You were my comfort and my solace;
-your wishes were what I most consulted; your opinions and inclinations
-were the rule of all my actions. But I wish not to grieve you by
-reminding you of a state of mutual confidence and happiness which we
-never more can enjoy.
-
-“If you have a heart,” he continued, looking at her mournfully, “it
-must already be deeply wounded by the remembrance of your behaviour
-to me, and can need no reproaches. The greatest to a feeling mind is
-the knowledge that it has acted unworthily; that it has abused the
-confidence reposed in it, and blasted the hopes of one, who relied
-solely upon its affection. You have betrayed me. Oh! Calantha, had
-you the heart? I will not tell you how by degrees suspicion first
-entered my mind, till being more plainly informed of the cruel
-truth, I attempted, but in vain, to banish every trace of you from my
-affections. I have not succeeded—I cannot succeed. Triumph at hearing
-this if you will. The habit of years is strong. Your image and that
-of crime and dishonour, can never enter my mind together. Put me not
-then to the agony of speaking to you in a manner you could not bear,
-and I should repent. They say you are not yet guilty; and that the man
-for whom I was abandoned has generously saved you ... but consider
-the magnitude of those injuries which I have received; and think me
-not harsh, if I pronounce this doom upon myself and you:—Calantha,
-we must part.”
-
-The stern brow gave way before these words; and the paleness of death
-overspread her form. Scarce could she support herself. He continued:
-“Whatever it may cost me, and much no doubt I shall suffer, I can
-be firm. No importunity from others, no stratagems shall prevail.
-I came, because I would not shrink from the one painful trial I had
-imposed upon myself. For yours and other’s sakes, I came, because I
-thought it best to break to you myself my irrevocable determination.
-Too long I have felt your power: too dearly I loved you, to cast
-dishonour upon your as yet unsullied name. The world may pardon, and
-friends will still surround you. I will give you half of all that I
-possess on earth; and I will see that you are supported and treated
-with respect. You will be loved and honoured; and, more than this, our
-children, Calantha, even those precious and dear ties which should
-have reminded you of your duty to them, if not to me,—yes, even our
-children, I will not take from you, as long as your future conduct
-may authorize me in leaving them under your care. I will not tear you
-from every remaining hope; nor by severity, plunge you into further
-guilt; but as for him, say only that he for whom I am abandoned was
-unworthy.”
-
-As he uttered these words, the frenzy of passion for one moment shook
-his frame. Calantha in terror snatched his hand. “Oh, hear me, hear me,
-and be merciful!” she cried, throwing herself before his feet.—“For
-God’s sake hear me.” “The injury was great,” he cried: “the villain
-was masked; but the remembrance of it is deep and eternal.”
-
-He struggled to extricate his hand from her grasp: it was cold, and
-trembling.... “Calm yourself,” he at length said, recovering his
-composure: “these scenes may break my heart, but they cannot alter
-its purpose. I may see your tears, and while under the influence
-of a woman I have loved too well, be moved to my own dishonour. I
-may behold you humble, penitent, wretched, and being man, not have
-strength of mind to resist.”
-
-“And is there no hope, Avondale?” “None for me,” he replied mournfully:
-“you have stabbed here even to my very heart of hearts.” “Oh, hear me!
-look upon me.” “Grant that I yield, wretched woman; say that I forgive
-you—that you make use of my attachment to mislead my feelings—Calantha,
-can you picture to yourself the scene that must ensue? Can you look
-onward into after life, and trace the progress of our melancholy
-journey through it? Can you do this, and yet attempt to realize, what
-I shudder even at contemplating? Unblest in each other, solitary,
-suspicious, irritated, and deeply injured—if we live alone, we shall
-curse the hours as they pass, and if we rush for consolation into
-society, misrepresented, pointed at, derided,—oh, how shall we bear
-it?”
-
-Her shrieks, her tears, now overpowered every other feeling. “Then it
-is for the last time we meet. You come to tell me this. You think I
-can endure it?” “We will not endure it,” he cried fiercely, breaking
-from her. “I wish not to speak with severity; but beware, for my
-whole soul is in agony, and fierce passion domineers: tempt me not
-to harm you, my beloved: return to your father: I will write—I will
-see you again” ... “Oh! leave me not—yet hear me.—I am not guilty—I
-am innocent—Henry, I am innocent.”
-
-Calantha knelt before him, as she spoke:—her tears choaked her voice.
-“Yet hear me; look at me once; see, see in this face if it bear traces
-of guilt. Look, Henry. You will not leave me.” She fell before him;
-and knelt at his feet. “Do you remember how you once loved me?” she
-said, clasping his hand in her’s. “Think how dear we have been to
-each other: and will you now abandon me? Henry, my husband, have you
-forgotten me? Look at the boy. Is it not yours? Am I not its mother?
-Will you cause her death who gave him life? Will you cast disgrace
-upon the mother of your child? Can you abandon me—can you, have you
-the heart?... Have mercy, oh my God! have mercy.... I am innocent.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXVI.
-
-
-The convulsive sobs of real agony, the eloquence which despair and
-affection create in all, the pleadings of his own kind and generous
-heart were vain. He raised her senseless from the earth; he placed her
-upon a couch; and without daring to look upon her, as he extricated
-his hand from the strong grasp of terror, he fled from her apartment.
-
-Mrs. Seymour had waited to see him; and, when he had quitted her
-niece’s room, she arrested him as he would have hastened by her, at
-the head of the stairs. Her ill state of health, and deep anxiety, had
-enfeebled her too much to endure the shock of hearing his irrevocable
-intention. He knew this, and wished to break it to her gently. She
-pressed his hand; she looked upon his countenance. All a mother’s
-heart spoke in those looks. Was there a hope yet left for her unhappy
-niece? “Oh, if there yet be hope, speak, Lord Avondale; spare the
-feelings of one who never injured you; look in that face and have
-mercy, for in it there is all the bitterness of despair.” He sought
-for expressions that might soften the pang—he wished to give her
-hope; but too much agitated himself to know what he then said: “I
-am resolved—I am going immediately,” he said, and passed her by in
-haste. He saw not the effect of his words—he heard not the smothered
-shriek of a heart-broken parent.
-
-As he rushed forward, he met the duke, who in one moment marked, in the
-altered manner of Lord Avondale—the perfect calm—the chilling proud
-reserve he had assumed, that there was no hope of reconciliation. He
-offered him his hand: he was himself much moved. “I can never ask,
-or expect you to forgive her,” he said, in a low broken voice. “Your
-generous forbearance has been fully appreciated by me. I number it
-amongst the heaviest of my calamities, that I can only greet you
-on your return with my sincere condolements. Alas! I gave you as
-an inheritage a bitter portion. You are at liberty to resent as a
-man, a conduct, which not even a father can expect, or ask you to
-forgive.” Lord Avondale turned abruptly from the duke: “Are my horses
-put to the carriage?” he said impatiently to a servant. “All is in
-readiness.” “You will not go?” “I must: my uncle waits for me at the
-inn at Belfont: he would scarcely permit me....”
-
-The shrieks of women from an adjoining apartment interrupted Lord
-Avondale. The duke hastened to the spot. Lord Avondale reluctantly
-followed. “Lady Avondale is dead,” said one: “the barbarian has
-murdered her.”—Lord Avondale flew forward. The violence of her feelings
-had been tried too far. That irrevocable sentence, that assumed
-sternness, had struck upon a heart, already breaking. Calantha was
-with some difficulty brought to herself. “Is he gone?” were the first
-words she uttered. “Oh! let him not leave me yet.”
-
-Sir Richard, having waited at Belfont till his patience was wholly
-exhausted, had entered the castle, and seeing how matters were likely
-to terminate, urged his nephew with extreme severity to be firm. “This
-is all art,” he said: “be not moved by it.” Lord Avondale waited to
-hear that Calantha was better, then entered the carriage, and drove
-off. “I will stay awhile,” said Sir Richard, “and see how she is;
-but if you wait for me at Kelly Cross, I will overtake you there. Be
-firm: this is all subterfuge, and what might have been expected.”
-
-Calantha upon recovering, sought Sir Richard. Her looks were haggard
-and wild: despair had given them a dreadful expression. “Have
-mercy—have mercy. I command, I do not implore you to grant me one
-request,” she said—“to give me yet one chance, however, undeserved.
-Let me see him, cruel man: let me kneel to him.” “Kneel to him!” cried
-Sir Richard, with indignation: “never. You have used your arts long
-enough to make a fool, and a slave, of a noble, confiding husband.
-There is some justice in Heaven: I thank God his eyes are open at
-last. He has acted like a man. Had he pardoned an adultress—had he
-heard her, and suffered his reason to be beguiled—had he taken again
-to his heart the wanton who has sacrificed his honour, his happiness,
-and every tie, I would have renounced him for ever. No, no, he shall
-not return: by God, he shall not see you again.”
-
-“Have mercy,” still repeated Lady Avondale; but it was but faintly.
-“I’ll never have mercy for one like you, serpent, who having been
-fondled in his bosom, bit him to the heart. Are you not ashamed
-to look at me?” Calantha’s tears had flowed in the presence of her
-husband; but now they ceased. Sir Richard softened in his manner.
-“Our chances in life are as in a lottery,” he said; “and if one who
-draws the highest prize of all, throws it away in very wantonness,
-and then sits down to mourn for it, who will be so great a hypocrite,
-or so base a flatterer, as to affect compassion? You had no pity for
-him: you ought not to be forgiven.”
-
-“Can you answer it to yourself to refuse me one interview? Can you
-have the heart to speak with such severity to one already fallen?”
-“Madam, why do you appeal to me? What are you approaching me for?
-What can I do?”
-
-“Oh, there will be curses on your head, Sir Richard, for this; but I
-will follow him. There is no hope for me but in seeing him myself.”
-“There is no hope at all, madam,” said Sir Richard, triumphantly:
-“he’s my own nephew; and he acts as he ought. Lady Avondale, he desires
-you may be treated with every possible respect. Your children will be
-left with you, as long as your conduct——” “Will he see me?” “Never.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXVII.
-
-
-Sir Richard ordered his carriage at twelve that evening, and did not
-even tell Lady Avondale that he was going from the castle. Calantha,
-fatigued with the exertions of the day, too ill and too agitated to
-leave her room, threw herself upon the bed near her little son. Mac
-Allain and the nurse spoke with her; promised to perform her last
-injunctions; then left her to herself.
-
-The soft breathing of Harry Mowbrey, who slept undisturbed beside
-her, soothed and composed her mind. Her thoughts now travelled back
-with rapidity over the varied scenes of her early and happier days:
-her life appeared before her like a momentary trance—like a dream
-that leaves a feverish and indistinct alarm upon the mind. The span
-of existence recurred in memory to her view, and with it all its
-hopes, its illusions, and its fears. She started with abhorrence at
-every remembrance of her former conduct, her infidelity and neglect
-to the best and kindest of husbands—her disobedience to an honoured
-parent’s commands. Tears of agonizing remorse streamed from her eyes.
-
-In that name of husband the full horror of her guilt appeared. Every
-event had conspired together to blast his rising fortunes, and his
-dawning fame. His generous forbearance to herself, was, in fact,
-a sacrifice of every worldly hope; for, of all sentiments, severe
-and just resentment from one deeply injured, is that which excites
-the strongest sympathy; while a contrary mode of conduct, however
-founded upon the highest and best qualities of a noble mind, is rarely
-appreciated. The cry of justice is alone supported; and the husband
-who spares and protects an erring wife, sacrifices his future hopes
-of fame and exalted reputation at the shrine of mercy and of love.
-She suddenly started with alarm. “What then will become of me?” she
-cried. “The measure of my iniquity is at its full.”
-
-Calantha’s tears fell upon her sleeping boy. He awoke, and he beheld
-his mother; but he could not discern the agitation of her mind. He
-looked on her, therefore, with that radiant look of happiness which
-brightens the smile of childhood; nor knew, as he snatched one kiss
-in haste, that it was the last, the last kiss from a mother, which
-ever through life should bless him with its pressure.
-
-It was now near the hour of twelve; and Mrs. Seymour cautiously
-approached Calantha’s bed. “Is it time?” “Not yet, my child.” “Is Sir
-Richard gone?” “No; he is still in his own apartment. I have written
-a few lines,” said Mrs. Seymour tenderly; “but if you fail, what
-hope is there that any thing I can say will avail?” “Had my mother
-lived,” said Calantha, “she had acted as you have done. You look so
-like her at this moment, that it breaks my heart. Thank God, she does
-not live, to see her child’s disgrace.” As she spoke, Calantha burst
-into tears, and threw her arms around her aunt’s neck.
-
-“Calm yourself, my child.” “Hear me,” said Lady Avondale. “Perhaps I
-shall never more see you. I have drawn down such misery upon myself,
-that I cannot bear up under it. If I should die,—and there is a degree
-of grief that kills—take care of my children. Hide from them their
-mother’s errors. Oh, my dear aunt, at such a moment as this, how all
-that attracted in life, all that appeared brilliant, fades away. What
-is it I have sought for? Not real happiness—not virtue, but vanity,
-and far worse.” “Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, as she wept over her
-niece, “there is much to say in palliation of thy errors. The heart
-is sometimes tried by prosperity; and it is in my belief the most
-difficult of all trials to resist. Who then shall dare to say, that
-there was not one single pretext, or excuse, for thy ill conduct?
-No wish, no desire of thine was ever ungratified. This in itself is
-some palliation. Speak, Calantha: fear not; for who shall plead for
-thee, if thou thyself art silent?”
-
-“From the deep recesses of a guilty, yet not humble heart, in the
-agony and the hopelessness of despair,” said Calantha, “I acknowledge
-before God and before man, that for me there is no excuse. I have
-felt, I have enjoyed every happiness, every delight, the earth can
-offer. Its vanities, its pleasures, its transports have been mine; and
-in all instances I have misused the power with which I have been too
-much and too long entrusted. Oh, may the God of worlds innumerable,
-who scatters his blessings upon all, and maketh his rain to fall upon
-the sinner, as upon the righteous, extend his mercy even unto me.”
-
-“Can I do any thing for you, my child?” said Mrs. Seymour. “Speak
-for me to Sophia and Frances,” said Calantha, “and say one word for
-me to the good and the kind; for indeed I have ever found the really
-virtuous most kind. As to the rest, if any of those with whom I
-passed my happier days remember me, tell them, that even in this last
-sad hour I think with affection of them; and say, that when I look
-back even now with melancholy pleasure upon a career, which, though
-short, was gay and brilliant—upon happiness, which though too soon
-misused and thrown away, was real and great, it is the remembrance of
-my friends, and companions—it is the thought of their affection and
-kindness, which adds to and imbitters every regret—for that kindness
-was lavished in vain. Tell them I do not hope that my example can
-amend them: they will not turn from one wrong pursuit for me; they
-will not compare themselves with Calantha; they have not an Avondale
-to leave and to betray. Yet when they read my history—if amidst the
-severity of justice which such a narrative must excite, some feelings
-of forgiveness and pity should arise, perhaps the prayer of one, who
-has suffered much, may ascend for them, and the thanks of a broken
-heart be accepted in return.”
-
-Mrs. Seymour wept, and promised to perform Calantha’s wishes. She was
-still with her, when Mac Allain knocked at the door, and whispered,
-that all was in readiness. “Explain every thing to my father,” said
-Calantha, again embracing her aunt; “and now farewell.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
-
-
-“Sure what a stormy night it is! Lard help us, Mr. Mac Allain,”
-said the nurse, as she wrapped her thick cloth mantle over the sweet
-slumberer that fondled in her bosom, and got into a post-chaise and
-four with much trepidation and difficulty. “I never saw the like!
-there’s wind enough to blow us into the sea, and sea enough to deluge
-the land. The Holy Virgin, and all the saints protect us!” Gerald Mac
-Allain having with some trouble secured the reluctant and loquacious
-matron, now returned for another and a dearer charge, who, trembling
-and penitent, followed him to the carriage. “Farewell, my kind
-preserver,” said Calantha, her voice scarcely audible. “God bless,
-God protect you, dear lady,” said the old man in bitter grief. “Take
-care of Henry. Tell my father that I have been led to this step by
-utter despair. Let no one suspect your friendly aid. Lord Avondale,
-though he may refuse to see me, will not be offended with the kind
-hearts that had pity on my misfortunes.” “God bless you, dear lady,”
-again reiterated the old man, as the carriage drove swiftly from the
-gates.
-
-But the blessing of God was not with Lady Avondale; she had renounced
-his favour and protection in the hour of prosperity; and she durst
-not even implore his mercy or his pardon in her present affliction.
-Thoughts of bitterness crowded together: she could no longer weep—the
-pressure upon her heart and brain would not permit it.
-
-“Eh! dear heart, how the carriage rowls!” was the first exclamation
-which awoke her to a remembrance of her situation. “We are ascending
-the mountain. Fear not, good nurse. Your kindness in accompanying me
-shall never be forgotten.” “Och musha, what a piteous night it is!—I
-did not reckon upon it.” “You shall be rewarded and doubly rewarded
-for your goodness. I shall never forget it. Lord Avondale will reward
-you,” “Hey sure you make me weep to hear you; but I wish you’d tell
-the cattle not to drive so uncommon brisk up the precipice. Lord have
-mercy, if there ain’t shrouds flying over the mountains!” “It is only
-the flakes of snow driven by the tempest.”
-
-“Do not fret yourself thus,” continued Lady Avondale. “I will take
-care of you, good nurse.” “I have heard say, and sure I hope it’s
-no sin to mention it again, my lady, that the wind’s nothing more
-than the souls of bad christians, who can’t get into Heaven, driven
-onward, alacks the pity! and shrieking as they pass.” “I have heard the
-same,” replied Calantha mournfully. “Och lard! my lady, I hope not:
-I’m sure it’s a horrid thought. I hope, my lady, you don’t believe
-it. But how terrible your dear ladyship looks, by the light of the
-moon. I trust in all the saints, the robbers have not heard of our
-journey.—Hark what a shriek!” “It is nothing but the wind rushing
-over the vast body of the sea. You must not give way to terror. See
-how the child sleeps: they say one may go in safety the world over,
-with such a cherub: Heaven protects it. Sing it to rest, nurse, or
-tell it some merry tale.”
-
-The carriage proceeded over the rocky path, for it could scarce be
-termed a road; the wind whistled in at the windows; and the snow
-drifting, covered every object. “There it comes again,” said the
-affrighted nurse. “What comes?” “The shroud with the death’s head
-peeping out of it. It was just such a night as this, last Friday night
-as ever came, when the doctor’s brother, the prophet Camioli, on his
-death-bed, sent for his ungrateful daughter, and she would not come.
-I never shall forget that night. Well, if I did not hear the shriek
-of the dear departed two full hours after he gave up the ghost. The
-lord help us in life, as in death, and defend us from wicked children.
-I hope your dear ladyship doesn’t remember that it was just on this
-very spot at the crossing, that Drax O’Morven was murdered by his
-son: and isn’t there the cross, as I live, just placed right over
-against the road to warn passengers of their danger.—Oh!”...
-
-“What is the matter, nurse? For God sake speak.” “Oh!”... “Stop the
-carriage. In the name of his Grace the Duke of Altamonte, I desire you
-to stop,” cried a voice from behind. “Drive on, boys, for your life.
-Drive on in mercy. We are just at Baron’s Down:—I see the lights of
-the village, at the bottom of the hill. Drive for your life: a guinea
-for every mile you go.” The nurse shrieked; the carriage flew; jolts,
-ruts, and rocks, were unheeded by Calantha. “We are pursued. Rush
-on:—reach Baron’s Down:—gallop your horses. Fear not. I value not
-life, if you but reach the inn—if you but save me from this pursuit.”
-“Stop,” cried a voice of thunder. “Fear not.” “Drive Johnny Carl,”
-screamed the nurse. “Drive Johnny Carl,” repeated the servant.
-
-The horses flew; the post boys clashed their whips; the carriage wheels
-scarce appeared to touch the ground. A yell from behind seemed only
-to redouble their exertions. They arrive: Baron’s Down appears in
-sight: lights are seen at the windows of the inn. The post boys ring
-and call: the doors are open: Lady Avondale flew from the carriage:—a
-servant of the duke’s arrested her progress. “I am sorry to make so
-bold; but I come with letters from his grace your father. Your Ladyship
-may remain at Baron’s Down to-night; but to-morrow I must see you
-safe to the castle. Pardon my apparent boldness: it is unwillingly
-that I presume to address you thus. My commands are positive.”
-
-“Sure there’s not the laist room at all for the ladies; nor any baists
-to be had, all the way round Baron’s Down; nor ever so much as a boy
-to be fetched, as can take care of the cattle over the mountain,”
-said the master of the inn, now joining in the conversation. “What
-will become of us?” cried the nurse. “Dear, dear lady, be prevailed
-on: give up your wild enterprise: return to your father. Lady Anabel
-will be quite kilt with the fatigue. Be prevailed upon: give up this
-hopeless journey.” “_You_ may return, if it is your pleasure: I never
-will.” “Your ladyship will excuse me,” said the servant, producing
-some letters; “but I must entreat your perusal of these, before you
-attempt to proceed.”
-
-“You had better give my lady your best accommodations,” said the nurse
-in confidence to the landlord: “she is a near connexion of the Duke of
-Altamonte’s. You may repent any neglect you may shew to a traveller
-of such high rank.” “There’s nae rank will make room,” retorted the
-landlord. “Were she the late duchess herself, I could only give her
-my bed, and go without one. But indeed couldn’t a trifle prevail
-with the baists as brought you, to step over the mountains as far
-as Killy Cross?” “There’s nae trifle,” said a man, much wrapped up,
-who had been watching Lady Avondale—“there’s nae trifle shall get ye
-to Killy Cross, make ye what haste ye can, but what we’ll be there
-before ye.” Calantha shuddered at the meaning of this threat, which
-she did not understand; but the nurse informed her it was a servant
-of Sir Richard Mowbrey’s.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER LXXXIX.
-
-
-The letters from her father, Lady Avondale refused to read. Many
-remonstrances passed between herself and the duke’s servant. The result
-was a slow journey in the dark night, over a part of the country
-which was said to be infested by the marauders. No terror alarmed
-Lady Avondale, save that of losing a last, an only opportunity of
-once more seeing her husband—of throwing herself upon his mercy—of
-imploring him to return to his family, even though she were exiled
-from it. “Yet, I will not kneel to him, or ask it. If when he sees
-me, he has the heart to refuse me,” she cried, “I will only shew him
-my child; and if he can look upon it, and kill its mother, let him do
-it. I think in that case—yes, I do feel certain that I can encounter
-death, without a fear, or a murmur.”
-
-The carriage was at this time turning down a steep descent, when some
-horsemen gallopping past, bade them make way for Sir Richard Mowbrey.
-Calantha recognized the voice of the servant: it was the same who
-had occasioned her so much alarm at the inn near Baron Moor. But the
-nurse exclaimed in terror that it was one of the rebels: she knew
-him, she said, by his white uniform; and the presence alone of the
-admiral, in the duke’s carriage, convinced her of her mistake. “Thanks
-be to heaven,” cried she the moment she beheld him, “it is in rail
-earnest the old gentleman.” “Thanks be to heaven,” said Calantha,
-“he either did not recognize me, or cares not to prevent my journey.”
-“We’ll, if it isn’t himself,” said the nurse, “and the saints above
-only know why he rides for pleasure, this dismal night, over these
-murderous mountains; but at all events he is well guarded. Alack! we
-are friendless.”
-
-Lady Avondale sighed as the nurse in a tremulous voice ejaculated these
-observations; for the truth of the last remark gave it much weight.
-But little did she know at the moment, when the admiral passed, how
-entirely her fate depended on him.
-
-It was not till morning they arrived at Kelly Cross. “Bless my heart,
-how terrible you look. What’s the matter, sweet heart?” said the
-nurse as they alighted from the carriage.—“Look up, dear.—What is the
-matter?”—“Nurse, there is a pressure upon my brain, like an iron hand;
-and my eyes see nothing but dimness. Oh God! where am I! Send, oh
-nurse, send my aunt Seymour—Call my—my husband—tell Lord Avondale to
-come—is he still here?—There’s death on me: I feel it here—here.”—“Look
-up, sweet dear:—cheer yourself:—you’ll be better presently.” “Never
-more, nurse—never more. There is death on me, even as it came straight
-upon my mother. Oh God!”—“Where is the pain?” “It came like ice upon
-my heart, and my limbs feel chilled and numbed.—Avondale—Avondale.”
-
-Calantha was carried to a small room, and laid upon a bed. The waiter
-said that Lord Avondale was still at the inn. The nurse hastened to
-call him. He was surprised; but not displeased when he heard that Lady
-Avondale was arrived. He rushed towards her apartment. Sir Richard
-was with him. “By G—d, Avondale, if you forgive her, I will never
-see you more. Whilst I live, she shall never dwell in my house.”
-“Then mine shall shelter her,” said Lord Avondale, breaking from Sir
-Richard’s grasp: “this is too much;” and with an air of kindness,
-with a manner gentle and affectionate, Lord Avondale now entered, and
-approached his wife. “Calantha,” he said, “do not thus give way to
-the violence of your feelings. I wish not to appear stern.—My God!
-what is the matter?” “Your poor lady is dying,” said the nurse. “For
-the love of mercy, speak one gracious word to her.” “I will, I do,”
-said Lord Avondale, alarmed. “Calantha,” he whispered, without one
-reproach, “whatever have been your errors, turn here for shelter to
-a husband’s bosom. I will never leave you. Come here, thou lost one.
-Thou hast strayed from thy guide and friend. But were it to seal
-my ruin, I must, I do pardon thee. Oh! come again, unhappy, lost
-Calantha. Heaven forgive you, as I do, from my soul.—What means this
-silence—this agonizing suspense?”
-
-“She faints,” cried the nurse. “May God have mercy!” said Lady
-Avondale. “There is something on my mind. I wish to speak—to tell—your
-kindness kills me. I repent all.—Oh, is it too late?”—It was.—For
-amendment, for return from error, for repentance it was too late.
-Death struck her at that moment. One piercing shriek proclaimed his
-power, as casting up her eyes with bitterness and horror, she fixed
-them upon Lord Avondale.
-
-That piercing shriek had escaped from a broken heart. It was the
-last chord of nature, stretched to the utmost till it broke. A cold
-chill spread itself over her limbs. In the struggle of death, she
-had thrown her arms around her husband’s neck; and when her tongue
-cleaved to her mouth, and her lips were cold and powerless, her eyes
-yet bright with departing life had fixed themselves earnestly upon
-him, as if imploring pardon for the past.
-
-Oh, resist not that look, Avondale! it is the last. Forgive her—pity
-her: and if they call it weakness in thee thus to weep, tell them
-that man is weak, and death dissolves the keenest enmities. Oh! tell
-them, that there is something in a last look from those whom we have
-once loved, to which the human soul can never be insensible. But
-when that look is such as was Calantha’s, and when the last prayer
-her dying lips expressed was for mercy, who shall dare to refuse and
-to resist it? It might have rent a harder bosom than thine. It may
-ascend and plead before the throne of mercy. It was the prayer of a
-dying penitent:—it was the agonizing look of a breaking heart.
-
-Weep then, too generous Avondale, for that frail being who lies so
-pale so cold in death before thee. Weep; for thou wilt never find
-again another like her. She was the sole mistress of thy affections,
-and could wind and turn thee at her will. She knew and felt her power,
-and trifled with it to a dangerous excess. Others may be fairer, and
-more accomplished in the arts which mortals prize, and more cunning
-in devices and concealment of their thoughts; but none can ever be
-so dear to Avondale’s heart as was Calantha.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XC.
-
-
-Sir Richard wished to say one word to console Lord Avondale; but
-he could not. He burst into tears; and knelt down by the side of
-Calantha. “I am an old man,” he said. “You thought me severe; but I
-would have died, child, to save you. Look up and get well. I can’t
-bear to see this:—no, I can’t bear it.” He now reproached himself. “I
-have acted rightly perhaps, and as she deserved; but what of that: if
-God were to act by us all as we deserve, where should we be? Look up,
-child—open your eyes again—I’d give all I have on earth to see you
-smile once on me—to feel even that little hand press mine in token
-of forgiveness.” “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale, in a faltering voice,
-“whatever Calantha’s faults, she forgave every one, however they had
-injured her; and she loved you.” “That makes it all the worse,” said
-the admiral. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
-
-Sir Richard’s sorrow, whether just or otherwise, came too late. Those
-who act with rigid justice here below—those who take upon themselves
-to punish the sinner whom God for inscrutable purposes one moment
-spares, should sometimes consider that the object against whom
-their resentment is excited will soon be no more. Short-lived is the
-enjoyment even of successful guilt. An hour’s triumph has perhaps
-been purchased by misery so keen, that were we to know all, we should
-only commiserate the wretch we now seek to subdue and to punish. The
-name of christians we have assumed; the doctrine of our religion, we
-have failed to study. How often when passion and rancour move us to
-shew our zeal in the cause of virtue, by oppressing and driving to
-ruin unutterable, what we call successful villainy, the next hour
-brings us the news that the object of our indignation is dead.—That
-soul is gone, however polluted, to answer before another throne for
-its offences. Ah! who can say that our very severity to such offender
-may not turn back upon ourselves, and be registered in the Heaven we
-look forward to with such presumption, to exclude us for ever from it.
-
-Sir Richard gazed sadly now upon his nephew. “Don’t make yourself
-ill, Henry,” he said. “Bear up under this shock. If it makes you
-ill, it will be my death.” “I know you are too generous,” said Lord
-Avondale, “not to feel for me.” “I can’t stay any longer here,” said
-Sir Richard, weeping. “You look at me in a manner to break my heart. I
-will return to the castle; tell them all that has happened; and then
-bring the children to you at Allenwater. I will go and fetch Henry
-to you.” “I can’t see him now,” said Lord Avondale: “he is so like
-her.” “Can I do any thing else for you?” said Sir Richard. “Uncle,”
-said Lord Avondale mournfully, “go to the castle, and tell them I
-ask that every respect should be shewn in the last rites they offer
-to——” “Oh, I understand you,” said Sir Richard, crying: “there will
-be no need to say that—she’s lov’d enough.” “Aye that she was,” said
-the nurse; “and whatever her faults, there’s many a-one prays for
-her at this hour; for since the day of her birth, did she ever turn
-away from those who were miserable or in distress?” “She betrayed her
-husband,” said Sir Richard. “She had the kindest, noblest heart,”
-replied Lord Avondale. “I know her faults: her merits few like to
-remember. Uncle, I cannot but feel with bitterness the zeal that
-some have shewn against her.” “Do not speak thus, Henry,” said Sir
-Richard. “I would have stood by her to the last, had she lived; but
-she never would appear penitent and humble. I thought her wanting in
-feeling. She braved every one; and did so many things that....” “She
-is dead,” said Lord Avondale, greatly agitated. “Oh, by the affection
-you profess for me, spare her memory.” “You loved her then even——.”
-“I loved her better than any thing in life.”
-
-Sir Richard wept bitterly. “My dear boy, take care of yourself,”
-he said. “Let me hear from you.” “You shall hear of me,” said Lord
-Avondale. The admiral then took his leave; and Lord Avondale returned
-into Calantha’s apartment. The nurse followed. Affected at seeing
-his little girl, he prest her to his heart, and desired she might
-immediately be sent to Allenwater. Then ordering every one from the
-room, he turned to look for the last time upon Calantha. There was
-not the faintest tint of colour on her pale transparent cheek. The
-dark lashes of her eye shaded its soft blue lustre from his mournful
-gaze. There was a silence around. It was the calm—the stillness of
-the grave.
-
-Lord Avondale pressed her lips to his. “God bless, and pardon thee,
-Calantha,” he cried. “Now even I can look upon thee and weep. O, how
-could’st thou betray me! ‘It is not an open enemy that hath done me
-this dishonour, for then I could have borne it: neither was it mine
-adversary that did magnify himself against me; for then peradventure I
-would have hid myself from him: but it was even thou, my companion, my
-guide, and mine own familiar friend.’——We took sweet counsel together
-... farewell! It was myself who led thee to thy ruin. I loved thee
-more than man should love so frail a being, and then I left thee to
-thyself. I could not bear to grieve thee; I could not bear to curb
-thee; and thou hast lost me and thyself. Farewell. Thy death has left
-me free to act. Thou had’st a strange power over my heart, and thou
-did’st misuse it.”
-
-As he uttered these words, while yet in presence of the lifeless form
-of his departed, his guilty wife, he prepared to leave the mournful
-scene. “Send the children to Allenwater, if you have mercy.” These
-were the last words he addrest to the nurse as he hurried from her
-presence.
-
-O man, how weak and impotent is thy nature! Thou can’st hate, and
-love, and kiss the lips of thy enemy, and strike thy dagger into the
-bosom of a friend. Thou can’st command thousands, and govern empires;
-but thou can’st not rule thy stormy passions, nor alter the destiny
-that leads thee on. And could Avondale thus weep for an ungrateful
-wife? Let those who live long enough in this cold world to feel its
-heartlessness, answer such enquiry. Whatever she had been, Calantha
-was still his friend. Together they had tried the joys and ills of
-life; the same interests united them: and the children as they turned
-to their father, pleaded for the mother whom they resembled.—Nothing,
-however, fair or estimable, can replace the loss of an early friend.
-Nothing that after-life can offer will influence us in the same degree.
-It has been said, that although our feelings are less acute in maturer
-age than in youth, yet the young mind will soonest recover from the
-blow that falls heaviest upon it. In that season of our life, we have
-it in our power, it is said, in a measure to repair the losses which
-we have sustained. But these are the opinions of the aged, whose pulse
-beats low—whose reasoning powers can pause, and weigh and measure
-out the affections of others. In youth these losses affect the very
-seat of life and reason, chill the warm blood in its rapid current,
-unnerve every fibre of the frame, and cause the phrenzy of despair.
-
-The duke was calm; but Lord Avondale felt with bitterness his injury
-and his loss. The sovereign who has set his seal to the sentence
-of death passed upon the traitor who had betrayed him, ofttimes in
-after-life has turned to regret the friend, the companion he has
-lost. “She was consigned to me when pure and better than those who
-now upbraid her. I had the guidance of her; and I led her myself into
-temptation and ruin. Can a few years have thus spoiled and hardened
-a noble nature! Where are the friends and flatterers, Calantha, who
-surrounded thee in an happier hour? I was abandoned for them: where
-are they now? Is there not one to turn and plead for thee—not one!
-They are gone in quest of new amusement. Some other is the favourite
-of the day. The fallen are remembered only by their faults.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCI.
-
-
-Lord Avondale wrote to Glenarvon, desiring an immediate interview.
-He followed him to England; and it was some months before he could
-find where he was. He sought him in every place of public resort,
-amidst the gay troop of companions who were accustomed to surround
-him, and in the haunts of his most lonely retirement. At length he
-heard that he was expected to return to Ireland, after a short cruize.
-Lord Avondale waited the moment of his arrival; watched on the eve
-of his return, and traced him to the very spot, where, alas! he had
-so often met his erring partner.
-
-It was the last evening in June. Glenarvon stood upon the high cliff;
-and Lord Avondale approached and passed him twice. “Glenarvon,”
-at length he cried, “do you know me, or are you resolved to appear
-ignorant of my intentions?” “I presume that it is Lord Avondale whom
-I have the honour of addressing.” “You see a wretch before you, who
-has neither title, nor country, nor fame, nor parentage. You know my
-wrongs. My heart is bleeding. Defend yourself; for one of us must
-die.” “Avondale,” said Lord Glenarvon, “I will never defend myself
-against you. You are the only man who dares with impunity address me
-in this tone and language. I accept not this challenge. Remember that
-I stand before you defenceless. My arm shall never be raised against
-yours.”
-
-“Take this, and defend yourself,” cried Lord Avondale in violent
-agitation. “I know you a traitor to every feeling of manly principle,
-honour and integrity. I know you; and your mock generosity, and lofty
-language shall not save you.” “Is it come to this?” said Glenarvon,
-smiling with bitterness. “Then take thy will. I stand prepared. ’Tis
-well to risk so much for such a virtuous wife! She is an honourable
-lady—a most chaste and loving wife. I hope she greeted thee on thy
-return with much tenderness: I counselled her so to do; and when we
-have settled this affair, after the most approved fashion, then bear
-from me my best remembrances and love. Aye, my love, Avondale: ’tis
-a light charge to carry, and will not burthen thee.”
-
-“Defend yourself,” cried Lord Avondale fiercely. “If it is thy mad
-wish, then be it so, and now stand off.” Saying this, Glenarvon
-accepted the pistol, and at the same moment that Lord Avondale
-discharged his, he fired in the air. “This shall not save you,”
-cried Lord Avondale, in desperation. “Treat me not like a child.
-Glenarvon, prepare. One of us shall die.—Traitor!—villain!” “Madman,”
-said Glenarvon scornfully, “take your desire; and if one of us
-indeed must fall, be it you.” As he spoke, his livid countenance
-betrayed the malignity of his soul. He discharged his pistol full at
-his adversary’s breast. Lord Avondale staggered for a moment. Then,
-with a sudden effort, “The wound is trifling,” he cried, and, flying
-from the proffered assistance of Glenarvon, mounted his horse, and
-gallopped from the place.
-
-No seconds, no witnesses, attended this dreadful scene. It took place
-upon the bleak moors behind Inis Tara’s heights, just at the hour of
-the setting sun. “I could have loved that man,” said Glenarvon, as he
-watched him in the distance. “He has nobleness, generosity, sincerity.
-I only assume the appearance of those virtues. My heart and his must
-never be compared: therefore I am compelled to hate him:—but O! not
-so much as I abhor myself.” Thus saying, he turned with bitterness
-from the steep, and descended with a firm step by the side of the
-mountain.
-
-Glenarvon stopped not for the rugged pathway; but he paused to look
-again upon the stream of Elle, as it came rushing down the valley: and
-he paused to cast one glance of welcome upon Inis Tara, Glenarvon bay,
-and the harbour terminating the wide extended prospect. The myrtles
-and arbutes grew luxuriantly, intermixed with larch and firs. The
-air was hot: the ground was parched and dry. The hollow sound of the
-forests; the murmuring noise of the waves of the sea; the tinkling
-bell that at a distance sounded from the scattered flocks—all filled
-his heart with vague remembrances of happier days, and sad forebodings
-of future sorrow. As he approached the park of Castle Delaval, he
-met with some of the tenantry, who informed him of Calantha’s death.
-
-Miss St. Clare stood before him. Perhaps at that moment his heart was
-softened by what he had just heard: I know not; but approaching her,
-“St. Clare,” he cried, “give me your hand: it is for the last time I
-ask it. I have been absent for some months. I have heard that which
-afflicts me. Do not you also greet me unkindly. Pardon the past. I
-may have had errors; but to save, to reclaim you, is there any thing
-I would not do?” St. Clare made no answer. “You may have discomforts
-of which I know not. Perhaps you are poor and unprotected. All that I
-possess, I would give you, if that would render you more happy.” Still
-she made no reply. “You know not, I fancy, that my castles have been
-restored to me, and a gallant ship given me by the English court. I
-have sailed, St. Clare: I only now return for a few weeks, before I
-am called hence for ever. Accept some mark of my regard; and pardon
-an involuntary fault. Give me your hand.”—“Never,” she replied: “all
-others, upon this new accession of good fortune, shall greet and
-receive you with delight. The world shall smile upon you, Glenarvon;
-but I never. I forgave you my own injuries, but not Calantha’s and
-my country’s.
-
-“Is it possible, that one so young as you are, and this too but a
-first fault, is it possible you can be so unrelenting?”—“A first
-fault, Glenarvon! The lessons you have taught were not in vain: they
-have been since repeated; but my crimes be on you!”—“Is it not for
-your sake, miserable outcast, alone, that I asked you to forgive me?
-What is your forgiveness to me? I am wealthy, and protected: am I not?
-Tell me, wretched girl, what are you?”—“Solitary, poor, abandoned,
-degraded,” said Miss St. Clare: “why do you ask? you know it.”—“And
-yet when I offer all things to you, cannot you bring that stubborn
-heart to pardon?”—“No: were it in the hour of death, I could not.”—“Oh,
-Elinor, do not curse me at that hour. I am miserable enough.”—“The
-curse of a broken heart is terrible,” said Miss St. Clare, as she
-left him; “but it is already given. Vain is that youthful air; vain,
-my lord, your courtesy, and smiles, and fair endowments:—the curse
-of a broken heart is on you: and, by night and by day, it cries to
-you as from the grave. Farewell, Glenarvon: we shall meet no more.”
-
-Glenarvon descended by the glen: his followers passed him in the well
-known haunt; but each as they passed him muttered unintelligible sounds
-of discontent: though the words, “ill luck to you,” not unfrequently
-fell upon his ear.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCII.
-
-
-From Kelly Cross to Allenwater, the road passes through mountains
-which, rough and craggy, exhibit a terrific grandeur. The inhabitants
-in this part of the country are uncivilized and ferocious. Their
-appearance strongly betokens oppression, poverty, and neglect. A herd
-of goats may be seen browzing upon the tops of the broken cliffs; but
-no other cattle, nor green herbage. A desolate cabin here and there;
-inactivity, silence, and despondency, every where prevail. The night
-was sultry, and the tired horse of Lord Avondale hung back to the
-village he had left, and slowly ascended the craggy steep. When he
-had attained the summit of the mountain, he paused to rest, exhausted
-by the burning pain of his wound.
-
-Lord Avondale then looked back at the scenes he had left.
-
-Before his eyes appeared in one extensive view the bright silver
-surface of Glenarvon bay, breaking through the dark shades of distant
-wood, under the heights of Inis Tara and Heremon, upon whose lofty
-summits the light of the moonbeam fell. To the right, the Dartland
-hills arose in majestic grandeur; and far onwards, stretching to the
-clouds, his own native hills, the black mountains of Morne; while
-the river Allan, winding its way through limestone rocks and woody
-glens, rapidly approached towards the sea.
-
-Whilst yet pausing to gaze upon these fair prospects, on a night so
-clear and serene, that every star shone forth to light him on his
-way, yells terrible and disorderly broke upon the sacred stillness,
-and a party of the rebels rushed upon him. He drew his sword, and
-called loudly to them to desist. Collingwood, an attendant who had
-waited for him at the inn, and had since accompanied him, exclaimed:
-“Will you murder your master, will you attack your lord, for that
-he is returning amongst you?”—“He wears the English uniform,” cried
-one. “Sure he’s one of the butchers sent to destroy us. We’ll have no
-masters, no lords: he must give up his commission, and his titles,
-or not expect to pass.”—“Never,” said Lord Avondale, indignantly:
-“had I no commission, no title to defend, still as a man, free and
-independent, I would protect the laws and rights of my insulted
-country. Attempt not by force to oppose yourselves to my passage. I
-will pass without asking or receiving your permission.”
-
-“It is Avondale, the lord’s son,” cried one: “I know him by his
-spirit. Long life to you! and glory, and pleasure attend you”—“Long
-life to your honour!” exclaimed one and all; and in a moment the
-enthusiasm in his favour was as great, as general, as had been at
-first the execration and violence against him. The attachment they
-bore to their lord was still strong. “Fickle, senseless beings!” he
-said, with bitter contempt, as he heard their loyal cry. “These are
-the creatures we would take to govern us: this is the voice of the
-people: these are the rights of man.”—“Sure but you’ll pity us, and
-forgive us; and you’ll be our king again, and live amongst us; and the
-young master’s just gone to the mansion; and didn’t we draw him into
-his own courts? and ain’t we returning to our cabins after seeing the
-dear creature safe: and, for all the world, didn’t we indade take ye
-for one of the murderers in the uniform, come to kill us, and make
-us slaves? Long life to your honour!”
-
-All the time they thus spoke, they kept running after Lord Avondale,
-who urged on his horse to escape from their persecution. A thousand
-pangs at this instant tortured his mind. This was the retreat in
-which he and Calantha had passed the first, and happiest year of
-their marriage. The approach to it was agony. The fever on his mind
-augmented. The sight of his children, whom he had ordered to be
-conveyed thither, would be terrible:—he dreaded, yet he longed to
-clasp them once more to his bosom. The people had named but one,
-and that was Harry Mowbrey. Was Anabel also there? Would she look
-on him, and remind him of Calantha? These were enquiries he hardly
-durst suggest to himself.
-
-Lord Avondale hastened on. And now the road passed winding by the
-banks of the rapid and beautiful Allan, till it led to the glen,
-where a small villa, adorned with flower gardens, wood and lawn,
-broke upon his sight. His heart was cheerless, in the midst of joy:
-he was poor, whilst abundance surrounded him. Collingwood rang at
-the bell. The crowd had reached the door, and many a heart, and many
-a voice, welcomed home the brave Lord Avondale. He passed them in
-gloom and silence. “Are the children arrived?” he said, in a voice
-of bitterness, to the old steward, whose glistening eyes he wished
-not to encounter. “They came, God bless them, last night. They are
-not yet awakened.” “Leave me,” said Lord Avondale. “I too require
-rest;” and he locked himself into the room prepared for his reception;
-whilst Collingwood informed the astonished gazers that their lord was
-ill, and required to be alone. “He was not used,” they said, as they
-mournfully retired, “to greet us thus. But whatever he thinks of his
-own people, we would one and all gladly lay down our lives to serve
-him.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCIII.
-
-
-Upon that night when the meeting between Lord Glenarvon and Lord
-Avondale had taken place, the great procession in honour of St.
-Katharine passed through the town of Belfont. Miss St. Clare, having
-waited during the whole of the day to see it, rode to St. Mary’s
-church, and returned by the shores of the sea, at a late hour. As
-she passed and repassed before her uncle’s house, she turned her dark
-eye upwards, and saw that many visitors and guests were there. They
-had met together to behold the procession.
-
-Lauriana and Jessica stood in their mother’s bay window. Tyrone,
-Carter, Grey, and Verny, spoke to them concerning their cousin. “See
-where she rides by, in defiance,” said one. “Miss St. Clare, fie upon
-this humour,” cried another: “the very stones cry shame on you, and
-our modest maidens turn from their windows, that they may not blush
-to see you.” “Then are there few enough of that quality in Belfont,”
-said St. Clare smiling; “for when I pass, the windows are thronged,
-and every eye is fixed upon me.” “What weight has the opinion of
-others with you?” “None.” “What your own conscience?” “None.” “Do
-you believe in the religion of your fathers?” “It were presumption
-to believe: I doubt all things.” “You have read this; and it is folly
-in you to repeat it; for wherein has Miss Elinor a right to be wiser
-than the rest of us?” “It is contemptible in fools to affect superior
-wisdom.” “Better believe that which is false, than dare to differ
-from the just and the wise: the opinion of ages should be sacred: the
-religion and laws of our forefathers must be supported.” “Preach to
-the winds, Jessica: they’ll bear your murmurs far, and my course is
-ended.”
-
-The evening was still: no breeze was felt; and the swelling billows
-of the sea were like a smooth sheet of glass, so quiet, so clear.
-Lauriana played upon the harp, and flatterers told her that she played
-better than St. Clare. She struck the chords to a warlike air, and
-a voice, sweet as a seraph angel’s, sung from below. “St. Clare,
-is it you? Well I know that silver-sounding voice. The day has been
-hot, and you have ridden far: dismount, and enter here. An aunt and
-relations yet live to receive and shelter thee. What, though all the
-world scorn, and censure thee, still this is thy home. Enter here,
-and you shall be at peace.” “Peace and my heart are at variance. I
-have ridden far, as you say, and I am weary: yet I must journey to
-the mountains, before I rest. Let me ride on in haste. My course will
-soon be o’er.” “By Glenarvon’s name I arrest you,” said Lauriana.
-“Oh, not that name: all but that I can bear to hear.”
-
-Cormac O’Leary, and Carter, and Tyrone, now come down, and assisted
-in persuading her to alight. “Sing to us,” they cried. “What hand can
-strike the harp like thine? What master taught thee this heavenly
-harmony?” “Oh, had you heard his song who taught me, then had you
-wept in pity for my loss. What does life present that’s worth even
-a prayer? What can Heaven offer, having taken from me all that my
-soul adored? Why name Glenarvon? It is like raising a spirit from
-the grave; or giving life again to the heart that is dead: it is as
-if a ray of the sun’s glorious light shone upon these cold senseless
-rocks; or as if a garden of paradise were raised in the midst of a
-desert: birds of prey and sea-fowl alone inhabit here. They should
-be something like Glenarvon who dare to name him.” “Was he all this
-indeed?” said Niel Carter incredulously.
-
-“When he spoke, it was like the soft sound of music. The wild
-impassioned strains of his lyre awakened in the soul every emotion:
-it was with a master-hand that he struck the chords; and all the
-fire of genius and poetry accompanied the sound. When Heaven itself
-has shed its glory upon the favourite of his creation, shall mortal
-beings turn insensible from the splendid ray? You have maddened
-me: you have pronounced a name I consider sacred.” “This prodigy of
-Heaven, however,” said Cormac O’Leary, “behaves but scurvily to man.
-Glenarvon it seems has left his followers, as he has his mistress.
-Have you heard, that in consequence of his services, he is reinstated
-in his father’s possessions, a ship is given to him, and a fair and
-lovely lady has accepted his hand? Even now, he sails with the English
-admiral and Sir Richard Mowbrey.”
-
-The rich crimson glow faded from Elinor’s cheek. She smiled, but it
-was to conceal the bitterness of her heart. She knew the tale was
-true; but she cared not to repeat it. She mounted her horse, and
-desiring Cormac O’Leary, Niel Carter, and others, to meet her that
-night at Inis Tara, she rode away, with more appearance of gaiety
-than many a lighter heart.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCIV.
-
-
-Elinor rode not to the mountains; she appeared not again at Belfont;
-but turning her horse towards the convent of Glanaa, she entered there,
-and asked if her aunt the abbess were yet alive. “She is alive,” said
-one of those who remembered Miss St. Clare; “but she is much changed
-since she last beheld you. Grieving for you has brought her to this
-pass.”
-
-What the nun had said was true. The abbess was much changed in
-appearance; but through the decay, and wrinkles of age, the serenity
-and benevolence of a kind and pious heart remained. She started
-back at first, when she saw Miss St. Clare. That unfeminine attire
-inspired her with feelings of disgust: all she had heard too of her
-abandoned conduct chilled her interest; and that compassion which she
-had willingly extended to the creeping worm, she reluctantly afforded
-to an impenitent, proud, and hardened sinner.
-
-“The flowers bloom around your garden, my good aunt; the sun shines
-ever on these walls; it is summer here when it is winter in every other
-place. I think God’s blessing is with you.” The abbess turned aside
-to conceal her tears; then rising, asked wherefore her privacy was
-intruded upon in so unaccustomed a manner. “I am come,” said Elinor,
-“to ask a favour at your hands, and if you deny me, at least add not
-unnecessary harshness to your refusal. I have a father’s curse on
-me, and it weighs me to the earth. When they tell you I am no more,
-say, will you pray for my soul? The God of Heaven dares not refuse
-the prayer of a saint like you.”
-
-“This is strange language, Miss St. Clare; but if indeed my prayers
-have the efficacy you think for, they shall be made now, even now that
-your heart may be turned from its wickedness to repentance.”—“The
-favour I have to ask is of great moment: there will be a child left
-at your doors; and ere long it will crave your protection; for it
-is an orphan boy, and the hand that now protects it will soon be no
-more. Look not thus at me: it is not mine. The boy has noble blood
-in his veins; but he is the pledge of misfortune and crime.”
-
-The abbess raised herself to take a nearer view of the person with
-whom she was conversing. The plumed hat and dark flowing mantle, the
-emerald clasp and chain, had little attraction for one of her age
-and character; but the sunny ringlets which fell in profusion over
-a skin of alabaster, the soft smile of enchantment blended with the
-assumed fierceness of a military air, the deep expressive glance
-of passion and sensibility, the youthful air of boyish playfulness,
-and that blush which years of crime had not entirely banished, all,
-all awakened the affection of age; and, with more of warmth, more of
-interest than she had wished to shew to one so depraved, she pressed
-the unhappy wanderer to her heart. “What treacherous fiends have
-decoyed, and brought thee to this, my child? What dæmons have had
-the barbarous cruelty to impose upon one so young, so fair?”
-
-“Alas! good aunt, there is not in the deep recesses of my inmost heart,
-a recollection of any whom I can with justice accuse but myself. That
-God who made me, must bear witness, that he implanted in my breast,
-even from the tenderest age, passions fiercer than I had power to
-curb. The wild tygress who roams amongst the mountains—the young lion
-who roars for its prey amidst its native woods—the fierce eagle who
-soars above all others, and cannot brook a rival in its flight, were
-tame and tractable compared with me. Nature formed me fierce, and
-your authority was not strong enough to curb and conquer me. I was
-a darling and an only child. My words were idolized as they sprung
-warm from my heart; and my heart was worth some attachment, for it
-could love with passionate excess. In my happier days, I thought too
-highly of myself; and forgive me, Madam, if, fallen as I am, I still
-think the same. I cannot be humble. When they tell me I am base, I
-acknowledge it: pride leads me to confess what others dare not; but I
-think them more base who delight in telling me of my faults: and when
-I see around me hypocrisy and all the petty arts of fashionable vice,
-I too can blush for others, and smile in triumph at those who would
-trample on me. It is not before such things as these, such canting
-cowards, that I can feel disgrace; but before such as you are—so
-good, so pure, and yet so merciful, I stand at once confounded.”
-
-“The God of Heaven pardon thee!” said the abbess. “You were once my
-delight and pride. I never could have suspected ill of you.” “I too
-was once unsuspicious,” said St. Clare. “My heart believed in nothing
-but innocence. I know the world better now. Were it their interest,
-would they thus deride me? When the mistress of Glenarvon, did they
-thus neglect, and turn from me? I was not profligate, abandoned,
-hardened, then! I was lovely, irresistible! My crime was excused. My
-open defiance was accounted the mere folly and wantonness of a child.
-I have a high spirit yet, which they shall not break. I am deserted,
-it is true; but my mind is a world in itself, which I have peopled
-with my own creatures. Take only from me a father’s curse, and to
-the last I will smile, even though my heart is breaking.”
-
-“And are you unhappy,” said the abbess, kindly. “Can you ask it, Madam?
-Amidst the scorn and hatred of hundreds, do I not appear the gayest
-of all? Who rides so fast over the down? Who dances more lightly at
-the ball? And if I cannot sleep upon my bed, need the world be told
-of it? The virtuous suffer, do they not? And what is this dream of
-life if it must cease so soon? We know not what we are: let us doubt
-all things—all but the curse of a father, which lies heavy on me.
-Oh take it from me to-night! Give me your blessing; and the time is
-coming when I shall need your prayers.”
-
-“Can such a mind find delight in vice?” said the abbess, mildly gazing
-upon the kneeling girl. “Why do you turn your eyes to Heaven, admiring
-its greatness, and trembling at its power, if you yet suffer your
-heart to yield to the delusions of wickedness?” “Will such a venial
-fault as love be accounted infamous in Heaven?” “Guilty love is the
-parent of every vice. Oh, what could mislead a mind like yours, my
-child?” “Madam, there are some born with a perversion of intellect, a
-depravity of feeling, nothing can cure. Can we straighten deformity,
-or change the rough features of ugliness into beauty?” “We may do
-much.” “Nothing, good lady, nothing; though man would boast that it is
-possible. Let the ignorant teach the wise; let the sinner venture to
-instruct the saint; we cannot alter nature. We may learn to dissemble;
-but the stamp is imprest with life, and with life alone it is erased.”
-
-“God bless, forgive, and amend thee!” said the abbess. “The sun is
-set, the hour is late: thy words have moved, but do not convince me.”
-“Rise, daughter, kneel not to me: there is one above, to whom alone
-that posture is due.” As St. Clare rode from the convent, she placed
-a mark upon the wicket of the little garden, and raising her voice,
-“Let him be accursed,” she cried, “who takes from hence this badge
-of thy security: though rivers of blood shall gush around, not a hair
-of these holy and just saints shall be touched.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCV.
-
-
-The preparations made this year by France, in conjunction with her
-allies, and the great events which took place in consequence of her
-enterprizes, belong solely to the province of the historian. It is
-sufficient to state, that the armament which had been fitted out on
-the part of the Batavian Republic, sailed at a later period of the
-same year, under the command of Admiral de Winter, with the intention
-of joining the French fleet at Brest, and proceeded from thence to
-Ireland, where the discontents and disaffection were daily increasing,
-and all seemed ripe for immediate insurrection.
-
-Lord Glenarvon was at St. Alvin Priory, when he was summoned to take
-the command of his frigate, and join Sir George Buchanan and Admiral
-Duncan at the Texel. Not a moment’s time was to be lost: he had already
-exceeded the leave of absence he had obtained. The charms of a new
-mistress, the death of Calantha, the uncertain state of his affairs,
-and the jealous eye with which he regarded the measures taken by his
-uncle and cousin de Ruthven, had detained him till the last possible
-moment; but the command from Sir George was peremptory, and he was
-never tardy in obeying orders which led him from apathy and idleness
-to a life of glory.
-
-Glenarvon prepared, therefore, to depart, as it seemed, without
-further delay, leaving a paper in the hands of one of his friends,
-commissioning him to announce at the next meeting at Inis Tara the
-change which had taken place in his opinions, and entire disapprobation
-of the lawless measures which had been recently adopted by the
-disaffected. He took his name from out the directory; and though he
-preserved a faithful silence respecting others, he acknowledged his
-own errors, and abjured the desperate cause in which he had once so
-zealously engaged.
-
-The morning before he quitted Ireland, he sent for his cousin Charles
-de Ruthven, to whom he had already consigned the care of his castles
-and estates. “If I live to return,” he said gaily, “I shall mend my
-morals, grow marvellous virtuous, marry something better than myself,
-and live in all the innocent pleasures of connubial felicity. In which
-case, you will be what you are now, a keen expectant of what never
-can be yours. If I die, in the natural course of events, all this
-will fall to your share. Take it now then into consideration: sell,
-buy, make whatever is for your advantage; but as a draw-back upon the
-estate, gentle cousin, I bequeath also to your care two children—the
-one, my trusty Henchman, a love gift, as you well know, who must be
-liberally provided for—the other, mark me Charles!—a strange tale
-rests upon that other: keep him carefully: there are enemies who
-watch for his life: befriend him, and shelter him, and, if reduced
-to extremities, give these papers to the duke. They will unfold all
-that I know; and no danger can accrue to you from the disclosure. I
-had cause for silence.”
-
-It was in the month of August, when Lord Glenarvon prepared to depart
-from Belfont. The morning was dark and misty. A grey circle along the
-horizon shewed the range of dark dreary mountains; and far above the
-clouds one bright pink streak marked the top of Inis Tara, already
-lighted by the sun, which had not risen sufficiently to cast its
-rays upon aught beside this lofty landmark. Horsemen, and carriages,
-were seen driving over the moors; but the silent loneliness of Castle
-Delaval continued undisturbed till a later hour.
-
-It was there that Lady Margaret, who had returned from England,
-awaited with anxiety the promised visit of Glenarvon. Suddenly a
-servant entered, and informed her that a stranger, much disguised,
-waited to speak with her.—His name was Viviani.—He was shewn into
-Lady Margaret’s apartment. A long and animated conversation passed.
-One shriek was heard. The stranger hurried from the castle. Lady
-Margaret’s attendants found her cold, pale, and almost insensible.
-When she recovered. “Is he gone?” she said eagerly. “The stranger
-is gone,” they replied. Lady Margaret continued deeply agitated;
-she wrote to Count Gondimar, who was absent; and she endeavoured to
-conceal from Mrs. Seymour and the duke the dreadful alarm of her mind.
-She appeared at the hour of dinner, and talked even as usual of the
-daily news.
-
-“Lord Glenarvon sailed this morning,” said Mrs. Seymour. “I heard
-the same,” said Lady Margaret. “Young De Ruthven is, I understand——”
-“What?” said Lady Margaret, looking eagerly at her brother—“appointed
-to the care of Lord Glenarvon’s affairs. You know, I conclude, that
-he has taken his name out of the directory, and done every thing to
-atone for his former errors.” “Has he?” said Lady Margaret, faintly.
-“Poor Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, “on her death-bed spoke of him
-with kindness. He was not in fault,” she said. “She bade me even
-plead for him, when others censured him too severely.” “It is well
-that the dead bear record of his virtues,” said Lady Margaret. “He
-has the heart of....”
-
-“Mr. Buchanan,” said a servant, entering abruptly, and, all in haste,
-Mr. Buchanan suddenly stood before his mother. There was no need of
-explanation. In one moment, Lady Margaret read in the countenance of
-her son, that the dreadful menace of Viviani had been fulfilled; that
-his absence at this period was but too effectually explained; that
-all was known. Buchanan, that cold relentless son, who never yet had
-shewn or affection, or feeling—whose indifference had seldom yielded
-to any stronger emotion than that of vanity, now stood before her,
-as calm as ever, in outward show; but the horror of his look, when
-he turned it upon her, convinced her that he had heard the dreadful
-truth. Mrs. Seymour and the duke perceiving that something important
-had occurred, retired.
-
-Lady Margaret and her son were, therefore, left to themselves. A
-moment’s pause ensued. Lady Margaret first endeavoured to break it:
-“I have not seen you,” she said at length, affecting calmness, “since
-a most melancholy scene—I mean the death of Calantha.”
-
-“True,” he cried, fixing her with wild horror; “and I have not seen
-you since.... Do you know Viviani?”—“Remember,” said Lady Margaret,
-rising in agitation, “that I am your mother, Buchanan; and this strange
-manner agitates, alarms, terrifies me.” “And me,” he replied. “Is it
-true,” at length he cried, seizing both her hands with violence—“Say,
-is it true?” “False as the villain who framed it,” said Lady Margaret.
-“Kneel down there, wretched woman, and swear that it is false,” said
-Buchanan; “and remember that it is before your only son that you
-forswear yourself—before your God, that you deny the dreadful fact.”
-
-Lady Margaret knelt with calm dignity, and upraising her eyes as if
-to heaven, prepared to take the terrible oath Buchanan had required.
-“Pause,” he cried: “I know it is true, and you shall not perjure
-yourself for me.” “The story is invented for my ruin,” said Lady
-Margaret, eagerly. “Believe your mother, oh, Buchanan, and not the
-monster who would delude you. I can prove his words false. Will you
-only allow me time to do so? Who is this Viviani? Will you believe
-a wretch who dares not appear before me? Send for him: let him be
-confronted with me instantly: I fear not Viviani. To connect murder
-with the name of a parent is terrible—to see an executioner in an
-only son is worse.” “There are fearful witnesses against you.” “I
-dare oppose them all.” “Oh, my mother, beware.” “Hear me, Buchanan.
-Leave me not. It is a mother kneels before you. Whatever my crime
-before God, do you have compassion. I am innocent—Viviani is....”
-“Is what?” “Is false. I am innocent. Look at me, my son. Oh, leave me
-not thus. See, see if there is murder in this countenance. Oh, hear
-me, my boy, my William. It is the voice of a mother calls to you, as
-from the grave.”
-
-Buchanan was inexorable. He left her.—He fled.—She followed, clinging
-to him, to the door.—She held his hand to her bosom: she clasped
-it in agony. He fled: and she fell senseless before him. Still he
-paused not; but rushing from her presence, sought Viviani, who had
-promised to meet him in the forest. To his infinite surprise, in his
-place he met Glenarvon. “The Italian will not venture here,” said
-the latter; “but I know all. Has she confessed?” “She denies every
-syllable of the accusation,” said Buchanan; “and in a manner so firm,
-so convincing, that it has made me doubt. If what he has written is
-false, this monster, this Viviani, shall deeply answer for it. I must
-have proof—instant, positive proof. Who is this Viviani? Wherefore
-did he seek me by mysterious letters and messages, if he dares not
-meet me face to face? I will have proof.” “It will be difficult to
-obtain positive proof,” said Glenarvon. “La Crusca, who alone knows,
-besides myself and Viviani, this horrid secret is under the protection
-of my cousin de Ruthven. How far he is acquainted with the murder I
-know not; but he fears me, and he dares not openly oppose me. Lady
-Margaret has proved her innocence to him likewise,” he continued
-smiling bitterly; “but there is yet one other witness.”—“Who, where?”
-“The boy himself.” “Perhaps this is all a plot to ruin my wretched
-mother,” said Buchanan. “I shall have it brought to light.” “And your
-mother publicly exposed?” “If she is guilty, let her be brought to
-shame.” “And yourself to ruin,” said Glenarvon. “To ruin unutterable.”
-
-They arrived at Belfont, whilst thus conversing. The evening was dark.
-They had taken a room at the inn. Glenarvon enquired of some around
-him, if Colonel St. Alvin were at the abbey. He was informed that
-he was at Colwood Bay. “Ask them now,” said Glenarvon in a whisper,
-“concerning me.” Buchanan did so, and heard that Lord Glenarvon had
-taken ship for England that morning, had abandoned his followers,
-and received a bribe for his treachery from the English court. The
-people spoke of him with much execration. Glenarvon smiling at their
-warmth: “This was your idol yesterday: to-morrow,” he continued, “I
-will give you another.” As soon as Buchanan had retired to his room,
-as he said, to repose himself, for he had not closed his eyes since he
-had left England, his companion, wrapping himself within his cloak,
-stole out unperceived from the inn, and walked to St. Alvin Priory.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCVI.
-
-
-Shortly after Buchanan’s departure, Lady Margaret had recovered from
-her indisposition. She was tranquil, and had retired early to rest.
-The next morning she was in her brother’s apartment, when a servant
-entered with a letter. “There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak
-with your grace.” “What is his name?” “I know not, my lord; he would
-not inform me.” The duke opened the letter. It was from M. De Ruthven,
-who entreated permission to have a few moments conversation with the
-duke, as a secret of the utmost importance had been communicated to
-him that night: but it was of the most serious consequence that Lady
-Margaret Buchanan should be kept in ignorance of the appeal. The name
-was written in large characters, as if to place particular emphasis
-upon it; and as unfortunately she was in her brother’s apartment at
-the moment the letter was delivered, it was extremely difficult for
-him to conceal from her its contents, or the agitation so singular
-and mysterious a communication had caused him.
-
-Lady Margaret’s penetrating eye observed in a moment that something
-unusual had occurred; but whilst yet commanding herself, that she
-might not shew her suspicions to her brother, Mac Allain entered, and
-giving the duke a small packet, whispered to him that the gentleman
-could not wait, but begged his grace would peruse those papers,
-and he would call again. “Sister,” said the duke, rising, “you will
-excuse. Good God! what do I see? What is the matter?” Lady Margaret
-had arisen from her seat:—the hue of death had overspread her lips
-and cheeks:—yet calm in the midst of the most agonizing suspense,
-she gave no other sign of the terror under which she laboured. Kindly
-approaching, he took her hand.
-
-“That packet of letters is for me,” she said in a firm low voice.
-“The superscription bears my name,” said the duke, hesitating. “Yet
-if—if by any mistake—any negligence—”—“There is no mistake, my lord,”
-said the servant advancing. “Leave us,” cried Lady Margaret, with
-a voice that resounded throughout the apartment; and then again
-faltering, and fainting at the effort, she continued: “Those letters
-are mine:—my enemy and yours has betrayed them:—Viviani may exhibit
-the weakness and folly of a woman’s heart to gratify his revenge; but
-a generous brother should disdain to make himself the instrument of
-his barbarous, his unmanly cruelty.” “Take them,” said the duke, with
-gentleness: “I would not read them for the world’s worth. That heart
-is noble and generous, whatever its errors; and no letters could ever
-make me think ill of my sister.”
-
-Lady Margaret trembled exceedingly. “They wish to ruin me,” she
-cried—“to tear me from your affection—to make you think me black—to
-accuse me, not of weakness, brother, but of crimes.”—“Were they
-to bring such evidences, that the very eye itself could see their
-testimony, I would disbelieve my senses, before I could mistrust you.
-Look then calm and happy, my sister. We have all of us faults; the
-best of us is no miracle of worth; and the gallantries of one, as
-fair, as young, as early exposed to temptation as you were, deserve
-no such severity. Come, take the detested packet, and throw it into
-the flames.”—“It is of no gallantry that I am accused; no weakness,
-Altamonte; it is of murder!” The duke started. “Aye, brother, of the
-murder of an infant.” He smiled. “Smile too, when I say further—of
-the murder of your child.”—“Of Calantha!” he cried in agitation. “Of
-an infant, I tell you; of the heir of Delaval.”
-
-“Great God! have I lived to hear that wretches exist, barbarous,
-atrocious enough, thus to accuse you? Name them, that my arm may avenge
-you—name them, dearest Margaret; and, by heavens, I will stand your
-defender, and at once silence them.” “Oh, more than this: they have
-produced an impostor—a child, brother—an Italian boy, whose likeness
-to your family I have often marked.” “Zerbellini?” “The same.” “Poor
-contrivance to vent their rage and malice! But did I not ever tell
-you, my dearest Margaret, that Gondimar, and that mysterious Viviani,
-whom you protected, bore an ill character. They were men unknown,
-without family, without principle, or honour.” “Brother,” said Lady
-Margaret, “give me your hand: swear to me that you know and love me
-enough to discredit at once the whole of this: swear to me, Altamonte,
-that without proving their falsehood, you despise the wretches who
-have resolved to ruin your sister.”
-
-The duke now took a solemn oath, laying his hand upon her’s, that
-he never could, never would harbour one thought of such a nature.
-He even smiled at its absurdity; and he refused to see either the
-stranger, or to read the packet—when Lady Margaret, falling back in
-a hollow and hysteric laugh, bade him tear from his heart the fond,
-the doating simplicity that beguiled him:—“They utter that which is
-true,” she cried. “I am that which they have said.” She then rushed
-from the room.
-
-The duke, amazed, uncertain what to believe or doubt, opened the
-packet of letters, and read as follows:—
-
-“My gracious and much injured patron, Lord Glenarvon’s departure,
-whilst it leaves me again unprotected, leaves me also at liberty to
-act as I think right. Supported by the kindness of Colonel de Ruthven,
-I am emboldened now to ask an immediate audience with the Duke of
-Altamonte. Circumstances preclude my venturing to the castle:—the
-enemy of my life is in wait for me—The Count Viviani and his agents
-watch for me by night and by day. Lady Margaret Buchanan, with Lord
-Glenarvon’s assistance, has rescued the young Marquis of Delaval from
-his perfidious hands; but we have been long obliged to keep him a
-close prisoner at Belfont Abbey, in order to preserve him from his
-persecutors. My Lord Glenarvon sailed yesternoon, and commended myself
-and the marquis to the colonel’s care. We were removed last night
-from St. Alvin’s to Colwood Bay, where we await in anxious hope of
-being admitted into the Duke of Altamonte’s presence. This is written
-by the most guilty and miserable servant of the Duke of Altamonte.
-
-                                                  “ANDREW MACPHERSON.”
-
-“Thanks be to God,” cried the duke, “my sister is innocent; and the
-meaning of this will be soon explained.” The remainder of the packet
-consisted of letters—many of them in the hand-writing of Lady Margaret,
-many in that of Glenarvon: some were dated Naples, and consisted of
-violent professions of love: the letters of a later date contained for
-the most part asseverations of innocence, and entreaties for secrecy
-and silence: and though worded with caution, continually alluded
-to some youthful boy, and to injuries and cruelties with which the
-duke was entirely unacquainted. In addition to these extraordinary
-papers, there were many of a treasonable nature, signed by the most
-considerable landholders and tenantry in the country. But that which
-most of all excited the duke’s curiosity, was a paper addressed to
-himself in Italian, imploring him, as he valued the prosperity of
-his family, and every future hope, not to attend to the words of
-Macpherson, who was in the pay of Lord Glenarvon, and acting under
-his commands; but to hasten to St. Alvin’s Priory, when a tale of
-horror should be disclosed to his wondering ears, and a treasure of
-inconceivable value be replaced in his hands.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCVII.
-
-
-So many strange asseverations, and so many inconsistencies, could
-only excite doubt, astonishment, and suspicion; when Lady Margaret,
-re-entering the apartment, asked her brother in a voice of excessive
-agitation, whether he would go with Colonel de Ruthven, who had called
-for him? And without leaving him time to answer, implored that he would
-not. “Your earnestness to dissuade me is somewhat precipitate—your
-looks—your agitation....” “Oh, Altamonte, the time is past for
-concealment, go not to your enemies to hear a tale of falsehood and
-horror. I, whom you have loved, sheltered, and protected, I, your
-own, your only sister, have told it you—will tell it you further; but
-before I make my brother loathe me—oh, God! before I open my heart’s
-black secrets to your eyes, give me your hand. Let me look at you
-once more. Can I have strength to endure it? Yes, sooner than suffer
-these vile slanderers to triumph, what dare I not endure!
-
-“I am about to unfold a dreadful mystery, which may no longer be
-concealed. I come to accuse myself of the blackest of crimes.” “This
-is no time for explanation,” said the duke. “Yet hear me; for I
-require, I expect no mercy at your hands. You have been to me the best
-of brothers—the kindest of friends. Learn by the confession I am now
-going to make, in what manner I have requited you.” Lady Margaret rose
-from her chair at these words, and shewed strong signs of the deep
-agitation of mind under which she laboured. Endeavouring not to meet
-the eyes of the duke, “You received me,” she continued, in a hurried
-manner, “when my character was lost and I appeared but as a foul blot
-to sully the innocence and purity of one who ever considered me and
-treated me as a sister. My son, for whom I sacrificed every natural
-feeling—my son you received as your child, and bade me look upon as
-your heir. Tremble as I communicate the rest.
-
-“An unwelcome stranger appeared in a little time to supplant him.
-Ambition and envy, moving me to the dreadful deed, I thought by one
-blow to crush his hopes, and to place my own beyond the power of
-fortune.” “Oh, Margaret! pause—do not, do not continue—I was not
-prepared for this. Give me a moment’s time—I cannot bear it now.”
-Lady Margaret, unmoved, continued. “To die is the fate of all; and
-I would to God that some ruffian hand had extinguished my existence
-at the same tender age. But think not, Altamonte, that these hands
-are soiled with your infant’s blood. I only wished the deed—I durst
-not do it.
-
-“I will not dwell upon a horrid scene which you remember full well.
-There is but one on earth capable of executing such a crime: he loved
-your sister; and to possess this heart, he destroyed your child.—How
-he destroyed him I know not. We saw the boy, cold, even in death—we
-wept over him: and now, upon plea of some petty vengeance, because
-I will not permit him to draw me further into his base purposes, he
-is resolved to make this scene of blood and iniquity public to the
-world. He has already betrayed me to a relentless son; and he now
-means to bring forward an impostor in the place of your murdered
-infant!”—“Who will do this?”—“Viviani; Viviani himself will produce
-him before your eyes.” “Would to God that he might do so!” cried the
-duke, gazing with pity and horror on the fine but fallen creature
-who stood before him.
-
-“I have not that strength,” he continued, “you, of all living mortals,
-seem alone to possess.—My thoughts are disturbed.—I know not what to
-think, or how to act. You overwhelm me at once; and your very presence
-takes from me all power of reflection. Leave me, therefore.” “Never,
-till I have your promise. I fear you: I know by your look, that you
-are resolved to see my enemy—to hear.” “Margaret, I will hear you
-to-morrow.” “No to-morrow shall ever see us two again together.”
-“In an hour I will speak with you again—one word.”—As he said this,
-the duke arose: and seizing her fiercely by the arm: “Answer but
-this—do you believe the boy this Viviani will produce?—do you think
-it possible?—answer me, Margaret, and I will pardon all—do you think
-the boy is my long lost child?” “Have no such hope; he is dead. Did we
-not ourselves behold him? Did we not look upon his cold and lifeless
-corpse?” “Too true, my sister.” “Then fear not: Buchanan shall not
-be defrauded.” “It is not for Buchanan that I speak: he is lost to
-me: I have no son.” “But I would not have you fall a prey to the
-miserable arts of this wretch. Beware of Viviani—remember that still
-I am your sister: and now, for the last time, I warn you, go not to
-Colwood Bay; for if you do....” “What then?” “You seal your sister’s
-death.” As she uttered these words, Lady Margaret looked upon the
-duke in agony, and retired.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCVIII.
-
-
-The duke continued many moments on the spot where she had left him,
-without lifting his eyes from the ground—without moving, or speaking,
-or giving the smallest sign of the deep feelings by which he was
-overpowered; when suddenly Lord Glenarvon was announced.
-
-The duke started back:—he would have denied him his presence. It
-was too late:—Glenarvon was already in the room. The cold dews stood
-upon his forehead; his eye was fixed; his air was wild. “I am come
-to restore your son,” he said, addressing the duke. “Are you prepared
-for my visit? Has Lady Margaret obeyed my command, and confessed?” “I
-thought,” said the duke, “that you had left Ireland. For your presence
-at this moment, my lord, I was not prepared.” “Whom does Lady Margaret
-accuse?” said Lord Glenarvon tremulously. “One whom I know not,” said
-the duke—“Viviani.” Glenarvon’s countenance changed, as with a look
-of exultation and malice he repeated:—“Yes, it is Viviani.” He then
-briefly stated that Count Gondimar, having accompanied Lady Margaret
-from Italy to Ireland in the year —— had concealed under a variety
-of disguises a young Italian, by name Viviani. To him the charge
-of murdering the heir of Delaval was assigned; but he disdained an
-act so horrible and base. La Crusca, a wretch trained in Viviani’s
-service, could answer for himself as to the means he took to deceive
-the family. Lord Glenarvon knew nothing of his proceedings: he alone
-knew, he said, that the real Marquis of Delaval was taken to Italy,
-whence Gondimar, by order of Viviani some years afterwards, brought
-him to England, presenting him to Lady Avondale as her page.
-
-In corroboration of these facts, he was ready to appeal to Gondimar,
-and some others, who knew of the transaction. Gondimar, however, Lord
-Glenarvon acknowledged, was but a partial witness, having been kept
-in ignorance as to the material part of this affair, and having been
-informed by Lady Margaret that Zerbellini, the page, was in reality
-her son. It was upon this account that, in the spring of the year,
-suddenly mistrusting Viviani, Lady Margaret entreated Count Gondimar
-to take the boy back with him to Italy; and not being able to succeed
-in her stratagems, on account of himself (Glenarvon) being watchful
-of her, she had basely worked upon the child’s feelings, making him
-suppose he was serving Calantha by hiding her necklace from his (Lord
-Glenarvon’s) pursuit. On which false accusation of theft, they had
-got the boy sent from the castle.
-
-Lord Glenarvon then briefly stated, that he had rescued him from
-Gondimar’s hands, with the assistance of a servant named Macpherson,
-and some of his followers; and that ever since he had kept him
-concealed at the priory. “And where is he at this time?” said the
-duke.—“He was with Lord Glenarvon’s cousin, Colonel de Ruthven, at
-Colwood Bay.”—“And when could the duke speak with Viviani?”—“When it
-was his pleasure.” “That night?”—“Yes, even on that very night.”—“What
-witness could Lord Glenarvon bring, as to the truth of this account,
-besides Viviani?”—“La Crusca, an Italian, from whom Macpherson had
-received the child when in Italy—La Crusca the guilty instrument of
-Viviani’s crimes.”—“And where was La Crusca?”—“Madness had fallen on
-him after the child had been taken from him by Viviani’s orders: he
-had returned in company with Macpherson to Ireland. Lord Glenarvon
-had offered him an asylum at his castle. Lady Margaret one day had
-beheld him; and Gondimar had even fainted upon seeing him suddenly,
-having repeatedly been assured that he was dead.”—“By whom was he
-informed that he was dead?”—“By Lady Margaret and Viviani.”—“Was
-Gondimar then aware of this secret?”—“No; but of other secrets, in
-which La Crusca and Viviani were concerned, equally horrible perhaps,
-but not material now to name.”
-
-This conversation having ended, the duke ordered his carriage, and
-prepared to drive to Colwood Bay. Lord Glenarvon promised in a few
-hours to meet him there, and bring with him Viviani. “If he restore my
-child, and confesses every thing,” said the duke, before he left Lord
-Glenarvon, “pray inform him, that I will promise him a pardon.” “He
-values not such promise,” said Glenarvon scornfully. “Lady Margaret’s
-life and honour are in his power. Viviani can confer favours, but
-not receive them.” The duke started, and looked full in the face of
-Glenarvon. “Who is this Viviani?” he said, in a tone of voice loud
-and terrible. “An idol,” replied Glenarvon, “whom the multitude have
-set up for themselves, and worshipped, forsaking their true faith,
-to follow after a false light—a man who is in love with crime and
-baseness—one, of whom it has been said, that he hath an imagination
-of fire playing around a heart of ice—one whom the never-dying worm
-feeds on by night and day—a hypocrite,” continued Glenarvon, with a
-smile of bitterness, “who wears a mask to his friends, and defeats
-his enemies by his unexpected sincerity—a coward, with more of bravery
-than some who fear nothing; for, even in his utmost terror, he defies
-that which he fears.” “And where is this wretch?” said the duke: “what
-dungeon is black enough to hold him? What rack has been prepared to
-punish him for his crimes?” “He is as I have said,” replied Glenarvon
-triumphantly, “the idol of the fair, and the great. Is it virtue
-that women prize? Is it honour and renown they worship? Throw but
-the dazzling light of genius upon baseness, and corruption, and every
-crime will be to them but an additional charm.”
-
-“Glenarvon,” said the duke gravely, “you have done me much wrong;
-but I mean not now to reproach you. If the story which you have told
-me is true, I must still remember that I owe my son’s safety to you.
-Spare Lady Margaret; keep the promise you have solemnly given me; and
-at the hour you have mentioned, meet me with the Italian and this boy
-at Colwood Bay.” Glenarvon left the presence of the duke immediately,
-bowing in token of assent. The Duke then rang the bell, and ordered
-his carriage. It was about four in the afternoon when he left the
-castle: he sent a message to Lady Margaret and Mrs. Seymour, to say
-that he had ordered dinner to await his return at seven.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XCIX.
-
-
-No sooner had the duke, accompanied by Macpherson, who waited for
-him, left the castle, than Mrs. Seymour sought Lady Margaret in her
-apartment. The door was fastened from within:—it was in vain she
-endeavoured by repeated calls to obtain an answer.—a strange fear
-occurred to her mind.—There were rumours abroad, of which she was not
-wholly ignorant. Was it credible that a sudden paroxysm of despair
-had led her to the last desperate measure of frantic woe? The God
-of mercy forbid! Still she felt greatly alarmed. The duke returned
-not, as he had promised: the silence of the castle was mournful; and
-terror seemed to have spread itself amongst all the inhabitants. Mac
-Allain entered repeatedly, asking Mrs. Seymour if the duke were not
-to have returned at the hour of dinner; and whether it was true that
-he was gone out alone. Eight, nine, and ten sounded; but he came not.
-
-Mac Allain was yet speaking, when shrieks, long and repeated, were
-heard. The doors burst open; servants affrighted entered; confusion
-and terror were apparent in all. “They are come, they are come!”
-exclaimed one. “We are going to be murdered. The rebels have broken
-into the park and gardens: we hear their cry. Oh, save us—save us from
-their fury! See, see, through the casement you may behold them: with
-their pikes and their bayonets, they are destroying every thing they
-approach.” Mac Allain threw up the sash of the window: the servants
-crowded towards it. The men had seized whatever arms they could find:
-the women wept aloud. By the light of the moon, crowds were seen
-advancing through the wood and park, giving the alarm by one loud and
-terrific yell. They repeated one word more frequently than any other.
-As they approached, it was plainly distinguished:—murder! murder!
-was the cry; and the inhabitants of the castle heard it as a summons
-to instant death. The Count Viviani’s name and Lady Margaret’s were
-then wildly repeated. The doors were in vain barricadoed and defended
-from within. The outer courts were so tumultuously crowded, that it
-became dangerous to pass. Loud cries for the duke to appear were heard.
-
-A rumour that the heir of Delaval was alive had been circulated—that
-blood had been spilt. “Let us see our young lord, long life to him!”
-was shouted in transports of ecstasy by the crowd; whilst yells of
-execration mingled against his persecutor and oppressor. “Return: shew
-yourself to your own people: no ruffian hand shall dare to harm you.
-Long life to our prince, and our king!”—Suddenly a bugle horn from
-a distance sounded. Three times it sounded; and the silence became
-as general as the tumult previously had been. In the space of a few
-moments, the whole of the crowd dispersed; and the castle was again
-left to loneliness and terror.
-
-The inhabitants scarcely ventured to draw their breath. The melancholy
-howling of the watch-dogs alone was heard. Mrs. Seymour, who had
-shewn a calm fortitude in the hour of danger, now sickened with
-despondency. “Some direful calamity has fallen upon this house. The
-hand of God is heavy upon us.” She prayed to that Being who alone can
-give support: and calm and resigned, she awaited the event. It was
-past three, and no news of the Duke. She then summoned Mac Allain,
-and proposing to him that he should arm himself and some others, she
-sent them forth in quest of their master. They went; and till their
-return, she remained in dreadful suspense. Lady Margaret’s door being
-still locked, she had it forced; but no one was there. It appeared
-she had gone out alone, possibly in quest of her brother.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER C.
-
-
-When the duke arrived at Colwood Bay, he found Colonel de Ruthven
-prepared to receive him; but was surprised and alarmed at hearing that
-Lord Glenarvon had that very morning sent for Zerbellini, and neither
-himself nor the boy had been seen since. The duke then informed the
-colonel that Lord Glenarvon had been at the castle about an hour since;
-but this only made the circumstance of his having taken away the child
-more extraordinary. It was also singular that Lord Glenarvon had paid
-for his passage the night before, and had taken leave of his friends,
-as if at that moment preparing to sail: his presence at the castle
-was, however, a full answer to the latter report: and whilst every
-enquiry was set on foot to trace whither he could be gone, the duke
-requested permission of the colonel himself to examine the maniac La
-Crusca and Macpherson: the former was still at St. Alvin Priory—the
-latter immediately obeyed the summons, and prepared to answer every
-question that was put to him.
-
-The duke first enquired of this man his name, and the principal
-events of his life. Macpherson, in answer to these interrogations,
-affirmed, that he was a native of Ireland; that he had been taken a
-boy into the service of the late Countess of Glenarvon, and had been
-one of the few who had followed her into Italy; that after this he
-had accompanied her son, the young earl, through many changes of life
-and fortune; but having been suddenly dismissed from his service,
-he had lost sight of him for above a year; during which time he had
-taken into his pay a desperado, named La Crusca, who had continued
-with him whilst he resided at Florence.
-
-After this, Macpherson hesitated, evaded, and appeared confused; but
-suddenly recollecting himself: “I then became acquainted,” he said,
-“with the Count Viviani, a young Venetian, who took me immediately
-into his service, and who, residing for the most part in the palace
-belonging to Lady Margaret at Naples, passed his time in every excess
-of dissipation and amusement which that town afforded. In the spring
-of the year, the count accompanied Lady Margaret secretly to Ireland,
-and, after much conversation with me, and many remonstrances on my
-part, gave me a positive command to carry off the infant Marquis
-of Delaval, but to spare his life. He menaced me with employing La
-Crusca in a more bloody work, if I hesitated; and, having offered
-an immense bribe, interest, affection for himself, and fear, induced
-me to obey. My daughter,” continued Macpherson, “was in the power of
-the count:—she had listened too readily to his suit. ‘I will expose
-her to the world—I will send her forth unprovided,’ he said, ‘if you
-betray me, or refuse to obey.’”
-
-“No excuses,” cried the duke, fiercely: “proceed. It is sufficient
-you willed the crime. Now tell me how amongst you you achieved it.”
-“I must be circumstantial in my narrative,” said Macpherson; “and
-since your grace has the condescension to hear me, you must hear all
-with patience; and first, the Count Viviani did not slay the Lord of
-Delaval: he did not employ me in that horrid act. I think no bribe
-or menace could have engaged me to perform it: but a strange, a wild
-idea, occurred to him as he passed with me through Wales, in our
-journey hither; and months and months succeeded, before it was in
-my power to execute his commands. He sent me on a fruitless search,
-to discover an infant who in any degree might resemble the little
-marquis. Having given up the pursuit as impossible, I returned to
-inform the count of the failure of his project. A double reward was
-proffered, and I set forth again, scarce knowing the extent of his
-wishes, scarce daring to think upon the crime I was about to commit.
-
-“It is useless to detail my adventures, but they are true. I can
-bring many undoubted witnesses of their truth: and there yet lives an
-unhappy mother, a lonely widow, to recount them. It was one accursed
-night, when the dæmons of hell thought fit to assist their agent—after
-having travelled far, I stopt at an inn by the road-side, in the
-village of Maryvale, in the County of Tyrone. I called for a horse;
-my own was worn out with fatigue: I alighted, and drank deep of the
-spirits that were brought me, for they drove away all disturbing
-thoughts—but, as I lifted the cup a second time to my lips, my eyes
-fixed themselves upon a child; and I trembled with agitation, for I saw
-my prey before me. The woman of the house spoke but little English;
-but she approached me, and expressed her fear that I was not well.
-Sensible that my emotion had betrayed me, I affected to be in pain,
-offered her money, and abruptly took leave. There was a wood not far
-from the town.
-
-“On a subsequent evening I allured her to it: the baby was at her
-breast. I asked her its name.—‘Billy Kendal,’ she answered, ‘for the
-love of its father who fights now for us at a distance.’ ‘I will be
-its father,’ I said. But she chid me from her, and was angrily about
-to leave me: striking her to the earth, I seized the child. The age,
-the size—every thing corresponded. I had bartered my soul for gold,
-and difficulties and failures had not shaken me. I had made every
-necessary preparation; and all being ready and secure, I fled; nor
-stopped, nor staid, nor spoke to man, nor shewed myself in village
-or in town, till I arrived at my journey’s end.
-
-“I arrived in the neighbourhood of Castle Delaval, and continued to
-see my master, without being recognized by any other. He appeared
-much agitated when he first beheld me. I cannot forget his smile.
-He desired me to keep the boy with me out at sea that night; and
-directing me to climb from the wherry up the steep path of the western
-cliff (where but yesterday I stood when the colonel sent for me), he
-promised to place food, and all that was requisite for us, near the
-chapel. ‘But trust no one with your secret,’ he said: ‘let not the
-eye of man glance upon you. Meet me in the night, in the forest near
-the moor, and bring the child. Mind that _you_ do not utter one word,
-and let _it_ not have the power of disturbing us. Do you understand
-me?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and shuddered because I did so. My master saw
-me shrink, and reminded me of the reward. I undertook punctually to
-fulfil every injunction: it was now too late to repent. But, oh, my
-lord! when I think of that night, that accursed night, what horror
-comes over me!
-
-“It was past twelve o’clock when I took the boy up from a sweet sleep,
-and fastening the wherry near the foot of the rock, with one hand I
-climbed the steep ascent, while with the other I carefully held the
-child. In one part the cliff is almost perpendicular: my foot slipped,
-and I was in danger of falling; but I recovered myself with much
-exertion. There was no moon; and the wind whistled loud and shrilly
-through the churchyard. It is, I believe, two miles from thence to the
-castle; but through the thick wood I now and then caught a glimpse
-of its lighted portico; and, remembering its former gaiety, ‘you
-rejoice to-night,’ I thought, ‘with music and dancing, regardless of
-my sorrows, or the hardships of others, even more wretched than I:
-but to-morrow, the black foot of care shall tread heavy even upon you.’
-
-“The wind rustled among the trees. This was the spot in which I was
-to meet my employer. I heard a step; it approached; and I pressed the
-child nearer to my bosom. ‘Some mother is weeping for you surely,
-little boy,’ I said; ‘and would give all she is worth to see that
-pretty face again. She little dreams of your hard fate, or into
-what rough hands her treasure has fallen; but I will not harm thee,
-boy. Hard must be the heart that could.’ Such were my thoughts: God
-be witness, such were my intentions at that moment. I now saw La
-Crusca; and well I knew by the villain’s countenance his horrible
-intentions: the lantern he carried glimmered through the trees; his
-eyes glared as in a low voice he enquired for the boy: and, as he was
-still concealed from him under my cloak, he seized me by the arm, and
-asked me why I trembled. He urged me instantly to deliver the child
-to him; but finding that I hesitated, he rudely grasped him; and the
-boy waking suddenly, cried aloud. ‘Did not our master tell you to
-prevent this?’ said the Italian, enraged, as, bidding the child be at
-peace, he abruptly fled with it. I heard not long after one piteous
-shriek, and then all was silent.
-
-“I returned to the boat. All there looked desolate. The little
-companion who had cheered the lonely hours was no more. The mantle
-remained. I threw myself upon it. Suddenly, upon the waves I thought
-I saw the figure of the child. I heard its last cry. I ever hear that
-piteous cry. The night was dark: the winds blew chilly over the vast
-water: my own name was pronounced in a low voice from the cliff.
-
-“It was my lord who spoke,—my master—the Count Viviani. He had returned
-to give me further instructions. I ascended the fearful steep, and
-listened in silence; but, before he left me, I ventured to ask after
-the boy, ‘Leave him to me,’ said the count, in an angry tone. ‘He is
-safe: he shall sleep well to-night.’ Saying this, he laughed ‘O! can
-you jest?’ I said. ‘Aye, that I can. This is the season of jesting,’ he
-answered; ‘for, mark my words, Macpherson, we have done a deed shall
-mar our future merriment, and stifle the heart’s laugh for ever. Such
-deeds as these bleach the hair white before its time, give fearful
-tremblings to the limbs, and make man turn from the voice of comfort
-on the bed of death. We have sent a cherub thither,’ continued the
-count, pointing up to heaven, ‘to stand a fearful testimony against
-us, and exclude us for ever from its courts.’
-
-“Saying which, he bade me hasten to some distant country. He entrusted
-the Lord of Delaval to my care, repeated his instructions, and for
-the second time that night departed. The morning sun, when it rose,
-all glorious, and lighted the eastern sky with its beams, found me
-still motionless upon the cliff. My eye involuntarily fixed upon
-the great landmark, the mountains which extend behind yon beautiful
-valley; but, starting at the thought of the crime I had committed, I
-turned for ever from them. I thought never again to behold a prospect
-so little in unison with my feelings. It is many years since I have
-seen it; but now I can gaze on nothing else. My eyes are dim with
-looking upon the scene, and with it upon the memory of the past.”
-
-Macpherson paused:—He turned to see what impression his narrative
-had made on the duke: he was utterly silent.—Macpherson therefore
-continued: “So far we had succeeded but too well in our black attempt;
-but the fair boy intrusted to me sickened under the hardships to
-which I was obliged to expose him. The price agreed on was paid me.
-La Crusca joined me; and together we reared the child in a foreign
-country, so as I hope to do him honour. But a dark malady at times
-had fallen upon La Crusca. He would see visions of horror; and the
-sight of a mother and a child threw him into frenzy, till it became
-necessary to confine him. I had not heard for some time from my
-master. I wished to bring my young charge back to his own country,
-before I died. I wrote; but no one answered my letters. I applied to
-the Count Gondimar; but he refused to hear me.
-
-“In the dead of night, however, even when I slept, the child was torn
-from me. I was at Florence, when some villain seized the boy. I had
-assumed another name: I lived apparently in happiness and affluence.
-I think it was the Count Gondimar who rifled my treasure. But he
-denied it.
-
-“Accompanied by La Crusca, I returned first to England and then
-to Ireland. I sought Count Gondimar; but he evaded my enquiries;
-and having taken the child from me, insisted upon my silence, and
-dispatched me to Ireland with letters for the Lord Glenarvon, who
-immediately recognized and received me.” “Where?” cried the duke.
-Macpherson hesitated.—“At the priory, where he then resided, and where
-he remained concealed: La Crusca was likewise permitted to dwell
-there; but of this story my lord was ignorant till now.” “That is
-false,” said the duke. “One morning La Crusca beheld Lady Margaret
-even as in a vision, on that spot to which I every day returned;
-but he had not power to speak. Madness, phrenzy had fallen on him.
-Lord Glenarvon protected him. His house was also my only refuge.
-He gathered from me much of the truth of what I have related, but I
-never told him all. I durst not speak till now. He was deeply moved
-with the wrongs of the injured boy; he vowed to revenge them; but he
-has forgotten his promise; he has left us, he has forsaken us. I am
-now in the service of another: this gentleman will befriend me; and
-the Duke of Altamonte will not turn from the voice of his miserable
-servant.”
-
-“Where?” said the duke starting, “where did you say Viviani, that
-damned Italian, had once concealed the child? He is there now perhaps!
-there, there let us seek him.”—“In the chapel,” said Macpherson
-hesitating, “there is a vault, of which he retains the key; and there
-is a chamber in the ruined turret, where I have ofttimes passed the
-night.” “Let us hasten there this instant,” said the duke.—“What hour
-is it?” “Nine.” “Oh! that it may not be too late! that he may not
-already have taken advantage of the darkness of evening to escape!”
-Saying this, the duke and Colonel de Ruthven having previously given
-orders to the servants to watch Macpherson carefully, drove with all
-possible haste to the chapel, near the Abbey of Belfont. But still
-they hoped that Viviani was their friend—He could have no motive in
-concealing the child: his only wish was probably to restore him, and by
-this means make terms for himself. With such thoughts they proceeded
-to the appointed spot. And it is there that for some moments we must
-leave them. The duke was convinced in his own mind who his real and
-sole enemy was; he was also firmly resolved not to let him escape.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CI.
-
-
-Viviani had long and repeatedly menaced Lady Margaret with vengeance.
-In every moment of resentment, on every new interview, at every
-parting scene, revenge, immediate and desperate, was the cry; but it
-had been so often repeated, and so often had proved a harmless threat,
-that it had at length lost all effect upon her. She considered him
-as a depraved and weak character—base enough to attempt the worst;
-but too cowardly to carry his project into effect. She knew him not.
-That strong, that maddening passion which had taken such deep root
-in his soul, still at times continued to plead for her; and whilst
-hope, however fallacious, could be cherished by him, he would not at
-once crush her beyond recovery. A lesser vengeance had not gratified
-the rage of his bosom; and the certainty that the menaced blow when
-it fell would overwhelm them both in one fate, gave him malignant
-consolation.
-
-Her renewed intercourse with Lord Dartford, he had endured. Lord
-Dartford had prior claims to himself; and though it tortured him to see
-them in each other’s society, he still forbore: but when he saw that
-he was the mere object of her hate, of her ridicule, of her contempt,
-his fury was beyond all controul. He wrote to her, he menaced her;
-he left her, he returned; but he felt his own little importance in
-the unprovoked calm with which she at all times received him: and
-maddening beyond endurance, “This is the moment,” he cried: “now, now
-I have strength to execute my threats, and nothing shall change me.”
-
-It was in London that Count Viviani, having left Lady Margaret in
-anger, addressed Buchanan by letter. “Leave your steeds, and your
-gaming tables, and your libertine associates,” he said. “Senseless
-and heartless man, awake at last. Oh! you who have never felt,
-whose pulse has never risen with the burning fires of passion, whose
-life, unvaried and even, has ever flowed the same—awake now to the
-bitterness of horror, and learn that you are in my power.” Buchanan
-heard the tale with incredulity; but when obliged to credit it, he
-felt with all the poignancy of real misery. The scene that took place
-between himself and his mother had left him yet one doubt: upon that
-doubt he rested. It was her solemn asseveration of innocence. But the
-heart that is utterly corrupted fears not to perjure itself; and he
-continued in suspense; for he believed her guilty.
-
-Such was the state of things, when Viviani, having by fraud again
-possessed himself of Zerbellini, sought Lady Margaret, and found
-her a few moments after the duke had left the castle. He well knew
-whither he was gone; he well knew also, that it was now too late to
-recall the vengeance he had decreed; yet one hope for Lady Margaret
-and himself remained:—would she fly with him upon that hour. _All_ was
-prepared for flight in case he needed it; and with her, what perils
-would he not encounter. He entered the castle, much disguised: he made
-her the proposal; but she received it with disdain. One thing alone
-she wished to know; and that she solemnly enjoined him to confess to
-her: was Zerbellini the real heir of Delaval?—was she guiltless of
-the murder of her brother’s child? “You shall see him, speak with
-him,” said Viviani, “if you will follow me as soon as the night is
-dark. I will conduct you to him, and your own eyes and ears shall be
-convinced.”
-
-So saying, he left her to fill the horrors of her own black
-imagination; but, returning at the time appointed, he led her to the
-wood, telling her that the boy was concealed in an apartment of the
-turret, close to the chapel. Suddenly pausing, as he followed the
-path:—“This is the very tree,” he cried, turning round, and looking
-upon her fiercely; “yes, this is the spot upon which La Crusca shed the
-blood of an innocent for you.” “Then the boy was really and inhumanly
-murdered,” said Lady Margaret, pale with horror at the thought, but
-still unappalled for herself. “Yes, lady, and his blood be on your
-soul! Do you hope for mercy?” he cried, seizing her by the arm. “Not
-from you.” “Dare you appeal to heaven?” She would not answer. “I must
-embrace thee here, lady, before we for ever part.” “Monster!” said
-Lady Margaret, seizing the dagger in his hand, as he placed his arm
-around her neck. “I have already resolved that I will never survive
-public infamy; therefore I fear you not; neither will I endure your
-menaces, nor your insulting and barbarous caresses. Trifle not with
-one who knows herself above you—who defies and derides your power. I
-dare to die.” And she gazed unawed at his closely locked fist. “Stab
-here—stab to this heart, which, however lost and perverted, yet exists
-to execrate thy crimes, and to lament its own.” “Die then—thus—thus,”
-said her enraged, her inhuman lover, as he struck the dagger, without
-daring to look where his too certain hand had plunged it. Lady Margaret
-shrunk not from the blow; but fixing her dying eyes reproachfully
-upon him, closed them not, even when the spirit of life was gone.
-
-Her murderer stood before her, as if astonished at what he had dared
-to do. “Lie there, thou bleeding victim,” he said, at length pausing
-to contemplate his bloody work. “Thou hast thought it no wrong to
-violate thy faith—to make a jest of the most sacred ties. Men have
-been thy victims: now take the due reward of all thy wickedness.
-What art thou, that I should have idolized and gazed with rapture
-on that form?—something even more treacherous and perverted than
-myself. Upon thee, traitress, I revenge the wrongs of many; and when
-hereafter, creatures like thee, as fair, as false, advance into the
-world, prepared even from childhood to make a system of the arts of
-love, let them, amidst the new conquests upon which they are feeding
-their growing vanity, hear of thy fate and tremble.”
-
-Saying these words, and flying with a rapid step, his dagger yet
-reeking with the blood of his victim, he entered the town of Belfont,
-at the entrance of which he met St. Clare, and a crowd of followers,
-returning from the last meeting at Inis Tara. “Hasten to the castle,”
-he cried, addressing all who surrounded him; “sound there the
-alarum; for the heir of Altamonte is found; Lady Margaret Buchanan is
-murdered.—Hasten there, and call for the presence of the duke; then
-return and meet me at the chapel, and I will restore to your gaze your
-long forgotten and much injured lord.” The people in shouts re-echoed
-the mysterious words, but the darkness of evening prevented their
-seeing the horrid countenance of the wretch who addressed them. St.
-Clare alone recognised the murderer, and fled. Viviani then returned
-alone to the chapel.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CII.
-
-
-The carriage which had conveyed the Duke of Altamonte and Colonel De
-Ruthven from Colwood Bay could not proceed along that narrow path which
-led across the wood to the chapel; they were therefore compelled to
-alight; and, hastening on along the road with torches and attendants,
-they enquired repeatedly concerning the loud shouts and yells which
-echoed in every direction around them.
-
-They were some little distance from the chapel, when the duke paused
-in horror.—The moonlight shone upon the bank, at the entrance of the
-beech trees; and he there beheld the figure of a female as she lay
-extended upon the ground, covered with blood. Her own rash hand,
-he thought, had perhaps destroyed her. He approached,—it was Lady
-Margaret! That proud spirit, which had so long supported itself, had
-burst its fetters. He gazed on her in surprise.—He stood a few moments
-in silence, as if it were some tragic representation he were called
-to look upon, in which he himself bore no part—some scene of horror,
-to which he had not been previously worked up, and which consequently
-had not power to affect him. Her face was scarce paler than usual;
-but there was a look of horror in her countenance, which disturbed
-its natural expression. In one hand, she had grasped the turf, as if
-the agony she had endured had caused a convulsive motion; the other
-was stained with blood, which had flowed with much violence. It was
-strange that the wound was between her right shoulder and her throat,
-and not immediately perceivable, as she had fallen back upon it:—it
-was more than strange, for it admitted little doubt that the blow
-had not been inflicted by herself. Yet, if inhumanly murdered, where
-was he who had dared the deed? The duke knelt beside her:—he called
-to her; but all mortal aid was ineffectual.
-
-The moon-beam played amidst the foliage of the trees, and lighted
-the plains around:—no trace of the assassin could be observed:—the
-loneliness of the scene was uninterrupted. A dark shadow now became
-visible upon the smooth surface of the green—was it the reflection of
-the tree—or was it a human form? It lengthened—it advanced from the
-thicket. The shapeless form advanced; and the heart of man sunk before
-its approach; for there is none who has looked upon the murderer of
-his kind without a feeling of alarm beyond that which fear creates.
-That black shapeless mass—that guilty trembling being, who, starting
-at his own shadow, slowly crept forward, then paused to listen—then
-advanced with haste, and paused again,—now, standing upon the plain
-between the beech wood and the chapel, appeared like one dark solitary
-spot in the lonely scene.
-
-The duke had concealed himself; but the indignant spirit within
-prompted him to follow the figure, indifferent to the fate that might
-await on his temerity. Much he thought that he knew him by his air and
-Italian cloak; but as his disguise had entirely shrouded his features,
-he could alone indulge his suspicions; and it was his interest to
-watch him unperceived. He, therefore, made sign to his attendants
-to conceal themselves in the wood; and alone, accompanied by Colonel
-De Ruthven, he followed towards the chapel. There the figure paused,
-and seemed to breathe with difficulty, slowly turning around to gaze
-if all were safe:—then, throwing his dark mantle back, shewed to
-the face of Heaven the grim and sallow visage of despair—the glazed
-sunken eye of guilt—the bent cowering form of fear.—“Zerbellini,” he
-cried, “Zerbellini, come down.—Think me not your enemy—I am your real
-friend, your preserver.—Come down, my child. With all but a brother’s
-tenderness, I wait for you.”
-
-Arouzed by this signal, a window was opened from an apartment adjoining
-the cloister; and a boy, lovely in youth, mournfully answered the
-summons. “O! my kind protector!” he said, “I thought you had resolved
-to leave me to perish here. If, indeed, I am all you tell me—if you do
-not a second time deceive me, will you act by me as you ought? Will
-you restore me to my father?” The voice, though soft and melodious,
-sounded so tremulously sad, that it immediately awakened the deepest
-compassion, the strongest interest in the duke. He eagerly advanced
-forward. Colonel De Ruthven entreated him to remain a few moments
-longer concealed. He wished to know Viviani’s intention; and they
-were near enough to seize him at any time, if he attempted to escape.
-
-They were concealed behind the projecting arch of the chapel; and
-whilst they beheld the scene, it was scarce possible that the Italian
-should so turn himself as to discover them. By the strong light of
-the moon, which stood all glorious and cloudless in the Heavens, and
-shone upon the agitated waves of the sea, the duke, though he could
-not yet see the face of the Italian, whose back was turned, beheld
-the features of Zerbellini—that countenance which had often excited
-a strange emotion in his bosom, and which now appealed forcibly to
-his heart, as claiming an alliance with him. Let then the ecstasy
-of his feelings be imagined, whilst still dubious, still involved
-in uncertainty and surprise. Viviani, having clasped the boy to his
-bosom, said in an impassioned voice these words:—“Much injured child,
-thou loveliest blossom, early nipped in the very spring-time of thy
-life, pardon thy murderer. Thou art the heir and lord of all that the
-pride of man can devise; yet victim to the ambition of a false and
-cruel woman, thou hast experienced the chastening rod of adversity,
-and art now prepared for the fate that awaits thee.
-
-“Albert,” he continued, “let me be the first to address thee by that
-name, canst thou forgive, say, canst thou forgive me?” “I know as yet
-but imperfectly,” said the boy, “what your conduct to me has been. At
-times I have trusted you as a friend, and considered you as a master.”
-“This is no time, my dear boy, for explanations—are you prepared? At
-least, embrace the wretch who has betrayed you. Let these tainted and
-polluted lips impress one last fond kiss upon thy cheek of rose, fair
-opening blossom, whose young heart, spotless as that of cherubims on
-high, has early felt the pressure of calamity. Smile yet once on me,
-even as in sleep I saw thee smile, when, cradled in princely luxury,
-the world before thee, I hurled thee from the vanities of life, and
-saved thy soul. Boy of my fondest interest, come to my heart, and
-with thy angel purity snatch the fell murderer from perdition. Then,
-when we sleep thus clasped together, in the bands of death, ascend,
-fair and unpolluted soul, ascend in white-robed innocence to Heaven,
-and ask for mercy of thy God for me!”
-
-“Wretch!” cried the duke, rushing forward:—but in vain his haste. With
-the strength of desperate guilt, the Italian had grasped the boy,
-and bearing him in sudden haste to the edge of the frightful chasm,
-he was on the point of throwing himself and the child from the top
-of it, when the duke, with a strong grasp, seizing him by the cloak,
-forcibly detained him.—“Wretch,” he cried, “live to feel a father’s
-vengeance!—live to——” “To restore your son,” said Glenarvon, with a
-hypocritical smile, turning round and gazing on the duke. “Ha, whom
-do I behold! no Italian, no Viviani, but Glenarvon.” “Yes, and to me,
-to me alone, you owe the safety of your child. Your sister decreed his
-death—I sav’d him. Now strike this bosom if you will.”—“What are you?
-Who are you?” said the duke. “Is it now alone that you know Glenarvon?”
-he replied with a sneer. “I suspected this; but that name shall not
-save you.”—“Nothing can save me,” said Glenarvon, mournfully. “All
-hell is raging in my bosom. My brain is on fire. _You_ cannot add
-to my calamities.” “Why a second time attempt the life of my child?”
-“Despair prompted me to the deed,” said Glenarvon, putting his hand
-to his head: “all is not right here—madness has fallen on me.” “Live,
-miserable sinner,” said the duke, looking upon him with contempt:
-“you are too base to die—I dare not raise my arm against you.” “Yet
-I am defenceless,” said Glenarvon, with a bitter smile, throwing the
-dagger to the ground. “Depart for ever from me,” said the duke—“your
-presence here is terrible to all.”
-
-Zerbellini now knelt before his father, who, straining him closely to
-his bosom, wept over him.—In a moment, yells and cries were heard;
-and a thousand torches illumined the wood. Some stood in horror to
-contemplate the murdered form of Lady Margaret; others, with shouts of
-triumph, conveyed the heir of Delaval to his home. Mrs. Seymour, Mac
-Allain, and others, received with transport the long lost boy: shouts
-of delight and cheers, long and repeated, proclaimed his return. The
-rumour of these events spread far and wide; the concourse of people
-who crowded around to hear and inquire, and see their young lord,
-was immense.
-
-A mournful silence succeeded. Lady Margaret’s body was conveyed to
-the castle. Buchanan followed in hopeless grief: he prest the duke’s
-hand; then rushed from his presence. He sought St. Clare. “Where is
-Glenarvon?” he cried. “In his blood, in his blood, I must revenge
-my own wrongs and a mother’s death.” Glenarvon was gone. One only
-attendant had followed him, O’Kelly, who had prepared every thing
-for his flight. Upon that night they had made their escape, O’Kelly,
-either ignorant of his master’s crimes, or willing to appear so,
-tried severely but faithful to the last. They sailed: they reached
-the English shore; and before the rumour of these events could have
-had time to spread, Glenarvon had taken the command of his ship,
-following with intent to join the British fleet, far away from his
-enemies and his friends.
-
-Macpherson was immediately seized. He acknowledged that Lord Glenarvon,
-driven to the necessity of concealing himself, had, with Lady Margaret
-and Count Gondimar’s assistance, assumed the name of Viviani, until
-the time when he appeared in his own character at St. Alvin’s Priory.
-The rest of the confession he had privately made concerning the child
-was found to be true. Witnesses were called. The mother of Billy
-Kendall and La Crusca corroborated the fact. La Crusca and Macpherson
-received sentence of death.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CIII.
-
-
-The heart sometimes swells with a forethought of approaching
-dissolution; and Glenarvon, as he had cast many a homeward glance upon
-his own native mountains, knew that he beheld them for the last time.
-Turning with sadness towards them, “Farewell to Ireland,” he cried;
-“and may better hearts support her rights, and revenge her wrongs!
-I must away.” Arrived in England, he travelled in haste; nor paused
-till he gained the port in which his ship was stationed. He sailed in
-a fair frigate with a gallant crew, and no spirit amongst them was so
-light, and no heart appeared more brave. Yet he was ill in health;
-and some observed that he drank much, and oft, and that he started
-from his own thoughts; then laughed and talked with eagerness, as if
-desirous to forget them. “I shall die in this engagement,” he said,
-addressing his first lieutenant. “Hardhead, I shall die; but I care
-not. Only this remember—whatever other ships may do, let the Emerald
-be first and last in action. This is Glenarvon’s command.—Say, shall
-it be obeyed?”——Upon the night after Lord Glenarvon had made his
-escape from Ireland, and the heir of Delaval had been restored to his
-father, a stranger stood in the outer gates of St. Alvin Priory—It
-was the maniac La Crusca, denouncing woe, and woe upon Glenarvon. St.
-Clare marked him as she returned to the Wizzard’s Glen, and, deeply
-agitated, prepared to meet her followers. It was late when the company
-were assembled. A flash of agony darted from her eyes, whilst with
-a forced smile, she informed them that Lord Glenarvon had disgraced
-himself for ever; and, lastly, had abandoned his country’s cause.
-“Shame on the dastard!” exclaimed one. “We’ll burn his castle,” cried
-another. “Let us delay no longer,” was murmured by all. “There are
-false friends among us. This is the night for action. To-morrow—who
-can look beyond to-morrow?” “Where is Cormac O’Leary?” said St. Clare.
-“He has been bribed to forsake us.” “Where is Cobb O’Connor?” “He
-is appointed to a commission in the militia, but will serve us at
-the moment.” “Trust not the faithless varlet: they who take bribes
-deserve no trust.”
-
-“Oh, God!” cried St. Clare indignantly; “have I lived to see my
-country bleeding; and is there not one of her children firm by her
-to the last?” “We are all united, all ready to stand, and die, for
-our liberty,” replied her eager followers. “Lead on: the hour is at
-hand. At the given signal, hundreds, nay, thousands, in every part of
-the kingdom, shall rush at once to arms, and fight gallantly for the
-rights of man. The blast of the horn shall echo through the mountains,
-and, like the lava in torrents of fire, we will pour down upon the
-tyrants who oppress us. Lead on, St. Clare: hearts of iron attend
-you. One soul unites us—one spirit actuates our desires: from the
-boundaries of the north, to the last southern point of the island,
-all await the signal.” “Hear it kings and oppressors of the earth,”
-said St. Clare: “hear it, and tremble on your thrones. It is the
-voice of the people, the voice of children you have trampled upon,
-and betrayed. What enemy is so deadly as an injured friend?”
-
-Saying this, and rushing from the applause with which this meeting
-concluded, she turned to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, and gazed
-with melancholy upon the turrets of Belfont. Splendid was the setting
-ray of the sun upon the western wave: calm was the scene before her:
-and the evening breeze blew softly around. Then placing herself near
-her harp, she struck for the last time its chords. Niel Carter and
-Tyrone had followed her. Buchanan, and de Ruthven, Glenarvon’s cousin,
-stood by her side. “Play again on thy harp the sweet sounds that are
-dear to me. Sing the songs of other days,” he said. “Oh, look not
-sad, St. Clare: I never will abandon thee.” “My name is branded with
-infamy,” she cried: “dishonour and reproach assail me on every side.
-Black are the portals of hell—black are the fiends that await to
-seize my soul—but more black is the heart of iron that has betrayed
-me. Yet I will sing the song of the wild harper. I will sing for you
-the song of my own native land, of peace and joy, which never more
-must be mine.”
-
-“Hark! what shriek of agony is that?”—“I hear nothing.” “It was his
-dying groan.——What means your altered brow, that hurried look?” It was
-the sudden inspiration of despair. Her eye fixed itself on distant
-space in wild alarm—her hair streamed—as in a low and hurried tone
-she thus exclaimed, whilst gazing on the blue vault of heaven:
-
-     “Curs’d be the fiend’s detested art,
-     Impress’d upon this breaking heart.
-     Visions dark and dread I see.
-     Chill’d is the life-blood in my breast.
-     I cannot pause—I may not rest:
-     I gaze upon futurity.
-
-     “My span of life is past, and gone:
-     My breath is spent, my course is done.
-     Oh! sound my lyre, one last sad strain!
-     This hand shall wake thy chords no more.
-     Thy sweetest notes were breath’d in vain:
-     The spell that gave them power is o’er.”
-
-“Dearest, what visions affright you?” said de Ruthven. “When shall
-the wishes of the people be gratified? What sudden gloom darkens over
-your countenance?” said her astonished followers. “Say, prophetess,
-what woe do you denounce against the traitor?” In a low murmuring
-voice, turning to them, she answered:
-
-     “When turf and faggots crackling blaze;
-     When fire and torch-lights dimly burn;
-     When kine at morn refuse to graze,
-     And the green leaf begins to turn;
-     Then shall pain and sickness come,
-     Storms abroad, and woes at home.
-     When cocks are heard to crow at ev’n,
-     And swallows slowly ply their wing;
-     When home-bound ships from port are driv’n,
-     And dolphins roll, and mermaids sing;
-     Then shall pain and sickness come,
-     Storms abroad, and woes at home.
-     When the black ox shall tread with his foot
-     On the green growing saplin’s tender root;
-     Then a stranger shall stand in Glenarvon’s hall,
-     And his portals shall blaze and his turrets shall fall.
-     Glenarvon, the day of thy glory is o’er;
-     Thou shalt sail from hence, but return no more.
-     Sound mournfully, my harp; oh, breath a strain,
-     More sad than that which Sion’s daughters sung,
-     When on the willow boughs their harps they hung,
-     And wept for lost Jerusalem! A train
-     More sorrowful before my eyes appear:
-     They come, in chains they come! The hour of fate is near.
-     Erin, the heart’s best blood shall flow for thee.
-     It is thy groans I hear—it is thy wounds I see.
-     Cold sleep thy heroes in their silent grave:
-     The leopard lords it o’er their last retreat.
-     O’er hearts that once were free and brave,
-     See the red banners proudly wave.
-     They crouch, they fall before a tyrant’s feet.
-     The star of freedom sets, to rise no more.
-     Quench’d is the immortal spark in endless night:
-     Never again shall ray so fair, so bright,
-     Arise o’er Erin’s desolated shore.”
-
-No sooner had St. Clare ended, than Buchanan, joining with her and the
-rest of the rebels, gave signal for the long expected revolt. “Burn
-his castle—destroy his land,” said St. Clare. Her followers prepared
-to obey: with curses loud and repeated, they vented their execration.
-Glenarvon, the idol they had once adored, they now with greater show
-of justice despised. “Were he only a villain,” said one, “I, for my
-part, would pardon him: but he is a coward and a hypocrite: when he
-commits a wrong he turns it upon another: he is a smooth dissembler,
-and while he smiles he stabs.” All his ill deeds were now collected
-together from far and near, to strengthen the violence of resentment
-and hate. Some looked upon the lonely grave of Alice, and sighed as
-they passed. That white stone was placed over a broken heart, they
-said: another turned to the more splendid tomb of Calantha, and cursed
-him for his barbarity to their lady: “It was an ill return to so
-much love—we do not excuse her, but we must upbraid him.” Then came
-they to the wood, and Buchanan, trembling with horror, spoke of his
-murdered mother. “Burn his castles,” they cried, “and execrate his
-memory from father to son in Belfont.” St. Clare suddenly arose in
-the midst of the increasing crowd, and thus, to inforce her purpose,
-again addressed her followers:—
-
-“England, thou hast destroyed thy sister country,” she cried. “The
-despot before whom you bow has cast slavery and ruin upon us. O man—or
-rather less, O king, drest in a little brief authority, beware, beware!
-The hour of retribution is at hand. Give back the properties that
-thy nation has wrested from a suffering people. Thy fate is decreed;
-thy impositions are detected; thy word passes not current among us:
-beware! the hour is ripe. Woe to the tyrant who has betrayed his
-trust!”—These were the words which Elinor uttered as she gave the
-signal of revolt to her deluded followers. It was even during the
-dead of night, in the caverns of Inis Tara, where pikes and bayonets
-glittered by the light of the torch, and crowds on crowds assembled,
-while yells and cries reiterated their bursts of applause.
-
-The sound of voices and steps approached. Buchanan, de Ruthven, and
-St. Clare, parted from each other. “It will be a dreadful spectacle
-to see the slaughter that shall follow,” said St. Clare. “Brothers
-and fathers shall fight against each other. The gathering storm has
-burst from within: it shall overwhelm the land. One desperate effort
-shall be made for freedom. Hands and hearts shall unite firm to shake
-off the shackles of tyranny—to support the rights of man—the glorious
-cause of independence. What though in vain we struggle—what though the
-sun that rose so bright in promise may set in darkness—the splendid
-hope was conceived—the daring effort was made; and many a brave heart
-shall die in the sacred cause. What though our successors be slaves,
-aye, willing slaves, shall not the proud survivor exult in the memory
-of the past! Fate itself cannot snatch from us that which once has
-been. The storms of contention may cease—the goaded victims may bear
-every repeated lash; and in apathy and misery may kneel before the
-feet of the tyrants who forget their vow. But the spirit of liberty
-once flourished at least; and every name that perishes in its cause
-shall stand emblazoned in eternal splendour—glorious in brightness,
-though not immortal in success.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CIV.
-
-
-“Hark!” said the prophetess: “’tis the screams of despair and agony:—my
-countrymen are defeated:—they fall:—but they do not fly. No human
-soul can endure this suspense:—all is dark and terrible: the distant
-roar of artillery; the noise of conflict; the wild tumultuous cries
-of war; the ceaseless deafening fire.—Behold the rolling volumes of
-smoke, as they issue from the glen!—What troop of horse comes riding
-over the down?—I too have fought. This hand has dyed itself in the
-blood of a human being; this breast is pierced; but the pang I feel is
-not from the wound of the bayonet.—Hark! how the trumpet echoes from
-afar beyond the mountains.—They halt—they obey my last commands—they
-light the beacons on the hill! Belfont and St. Alvin shall blaze;
-the seat of his fathers shall fall; and with their ashes, mine shall
-not mingle! Glenarvon, farewell! Even in death I have not forgiven
-thee!—Come, tardy steed, bear me once again; and then both horse and
-rider shall rest in peace for ever.”
-
-It was about the second hour of night when St. Clare reached Inis
-Tara, and stood suspended between terror and exultation, as she
-watched the clouds of smoke and fire which burst from the turrets of
-Belfont. The ranks were every where broken: soldiers in pursuit were
-seen in detached parties, scouring over every part of the country: the
-valley of Altamonte rang with the savage contest, as horse to horse,
-and man to man, opposed each other. The pike and bayonet glittered
-in the moon-beam; and the distant discharge of musketry, with the
-yell of triumph, and the groans of despair, echoed mournfully upon
-the blast. Elinor rose upon her panting steed to gaze with eager eyes
-towards Belfont.
-
-It was not the reflection of the kindling fires that spread so
-deathlike a hue over her lips and face. She was bleeding to death from
-her wounds, while her eye darted forth, as if intently watching, with
-alternate hope and terror, that which none but herself could see—it
-was a man and horse advancing with furious haste from the smoke and
-flames, in which he had appeared involved. He bore a lovely burthen
-in his arms, and shewing her Clare of Costolly as he passed. “I have
-fulfilled your desire, proud woman,” he cried: “the castle shall burn
-to the earth: the blood of every enemy to his country shall be spilt.
-I have saved the son of Glenarvon; and when I have placed him in
-safety, shall de Ruthven be as dear?” “Take my thanks,” said Elinor
-faintly, as the blood continued to flow from her wounds. “Bear that
-boy to my aunt, the Abbess of Glanaa: tell her to cherish him for my
-sake. Sometimes speak to him of St. Clare.
-
-“Now, see the flame of vengeance how it rises upon my view. Burn,
-fire; burn. Let the flames ascend, even to the Heavens. So fierce
-and bright are the last fires of love, now quenched, for ever and for
-ever. The seat of his ancestors shall fall to the lowest earth—dust
-to dust—earth to earth. What is the pride of man?—The dream of life
-is past; the song of the wild harper has ceased; famine, war, and
-slavery, shall encompass my country.
-
-     “But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
-     One last dying wish this sad bosom shall draw:
-     O, Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing;
-     Land of my forefathers, Erin go brah.”
-
-As she sung the last strain of the song, which the sons of freedom
-had learned, she tore the green mantle from her breast, and throwing
-it around the head of her steed, so that he could not perceive any
-external object, she pressed the spur into his sides, and gallopped in
-haste to the edge of the cliff, from which she beheld, like a sheet
-of fire reddening the heavens, the blazing turrets of Belfont. She
-heard the crash: she gazed in triumph, as millions of sparks lighted
-the blue vault of the heavens; and volumes of smoke, curling from the
-ruins, half concealed the ravages of the insatiate flame. Then she
-drew the horn from her side, and sounding it loud and shrill from
-Heremon cliff, heard it answered from mountain to mountain, by all
-her armed confederates. The waves of the foaming billows now reflected
-a blood-red light from the scorching flames....
-
-Three hundred and sixty feet was the cliff perpendicular from the
-vast fathomless ocean. “Glenarvon, hurah! Peace to the broken hearts!
-Nay, start not, Clarence: to horse, to horse! Thus charge; it is
-for life and honour.” The affrighted steed saw not the fearful chasm
-into which, goaded on by his rider, he involuntarily plunged. But de
-Ruthven heard the piercing shriek he gave, as he sunk headlong into
-the rushing waters, which in a moment overwhelming both horse and
-rider, concealed them from the view of man.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CV.
-
-
-Short is the sequel of the history which is now to be related. The
-strong arm of power soon suppressed this partial rebellion. Buchanan
-was found stretched in death upon the field of battle, lovely in form
-even in that hour.
-
-The Marquis of Delaval, restored to his family and fortune, soon
-forgot the lesson adversity had taught. In the same follies and the
-same vanities his predecessors had passed their days, he likewise
-endeavoured to enjoy the remainder of his. The Duke of Altamonte lived
-long enough to learn the mournful truth, which pride had once forborne
-to teach, the perishableness of all human strength, the littleness
-of all human greatness, and the vanity of every enjoyment this world
-can offer. Of Sophia, of Frances, of Lady Dartford, what is there
-to relate? They passed joyfully with the thousands that sail daily
-along the stream of folly, uncensured and uncommended. Youth, beauty,
-and vanity, were theirs: they enjoyed and suffered all the little
-pleasures, and all the little pains of life, and resisted all its
-little temptations. Lady Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn fluttered
-away likewise each pleasureable moment as frivolously, though perhaps
-less innocently; then turned to weep for the errors into which they had
-been drawn, more humble in themselves when sorrow had chastened them.
-Then it was that they called to the flatterers of their prosperous
-days; but they were silent and cold: then it was that they looked
-for the friends who had encircled them once; but they were not to be
-found: and they learned, like the sinner they had despised, all that
-terror dreams of on its sick bed, and all that misery in its worst
-moments can conceive. Mrs. Seymour, in acts of piety and benevolence,
-retired to the Garden Cottage, a small estate the Duke of Altamonte
-had settled on her; and she found that religion and virtue, even in
-this world, have their reward. The coldness, the prejudice, which,
-in the presumption of her heart had once given her an appearance of
-austerity, softened in the decline of life; and when she considered
-the frailty of human nature, the misery and uncertainty of existence,
-she turned not from the penitent wanderer who had left the right road,
-and spoke with severity alone of hardened and triumphant guilt. Her
-life was one fair course of virtue; and when she died, thousands of
-those whom she had reclaimed or befriended followed her to the grave.
-
-As to the Princess of Madagascar, she lived to a good old age,
-though death repeatedly gave her warning of his approach. “Can any
-humiliation, any sacrifice avail?” she cried, in helpless alarm, seeing
-his continual advances. “Can I yet be saved?” she said, addressing
-Hoiouskim, who often by a bold attempt had hurried away this grim
-king of terrors. “If we were to sacrifice the great nabob, and all
-our party, and our followers—can fasting, praying, avail? shall the
-reviewers be poisoned in an eminée! shall—” It was hinted to the
-princess at length, though in the gentlest manner possible, that this
-time, nor sacrifice, nor spell, would save her. Death stood broad and
-unveiled before her. “If then I must die,” she cried, weeping bitterly
-at the necessity, “send with haste for the dignitaries of the church.
-I would not enter upon the new world without a passport; I, who have
-so scrupulously courted favour every where in this. As to confession
-of sins, what have I to confess, Hoiouskim? I appeal to you: is there
-a scribbler, however contemptible, whose pen I feared might one day be
-turned against me, that I have not silenced by the grossest flattery?
-Is there a man or woman of note in any kingdom that I have not crammed
-with dinners, and little attentions, and presents, in hopes of gaining
-them over to my side? And is there, unless the helpless, the fallen,
-and the idiot, appear against me, any one whom it was my interest to
-befriend that I have not sought for and won? What minion of fashion,
-what dandy in distress, what woman of intrigue, who had learned to
-deceive with ease, have I not assisted? Oh, say, what then are my
-sins, Hoiouskim? Even if self-denial be a virtue, though I have not
-practised it myself, have I not made you and others daily and hourly
-do so?” Hoiouskim bowed assent. Death now approached too near for
-further colloquy. The princess, pinching her attendants, that they
-might feel for what she suffered, fainted: yet with her dying breath
-again invoking the high priest: “Hoiouskim,” she cried, “obey my last
-command: send all my attendants after me, my eider down quilts, my
-coffee pots, my carriages, my confectioner: and tell the cook—” As
-she uttered that short but comprehensive monosyllable, she expired.
-Peace to her memory! I wish not to reproach her: a friend more false,
-a foe more timid yet insulting, a princess more fond of power, never
-before or since appeared in Europe. Hoiouskim wept beside her, yet,
-when he recovered (and your philosophers seldom die of sorrow) it is
-said he retired to his own country, and shrunk from every woman he
-afterwards beheld, for fear they should remind him of her he loved so
-well, and prove another Princess of Madagascar. The dead, or yellow
-poet was twice carried by mistake to the grave. It is further said,
-that all the reviewers, who had bartered their independence for the
-comforts and flattery of Barbary House, died in the same year as the
-princess, of an epidemic disorder; but of this, who can be secure?
-Perhaps, alas! one yet remains to punish the flippant tongue, that
-dared to assert they were no more. But to return from this digression.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER CVI.
-
-
-At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and
-honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the
-flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every
-object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets
-of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads,
-and autumn’s yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf.
-Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society
-and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of
-disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but
-still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy
-of his friend.
-
-Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life,
-called at Allenwater.—“How is your master?” he said, in a hurried
-manner. “He is ill,” said James Collingwood. “He will rise from his
-bed no more.” Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly,
-entered Lord Avondale’s room.—“Who weeps so sadly by a dying father’s
-bed?” “It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha’s child, the little comforter of
-many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh
-of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious
-parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in
-vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand
-which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping
-boy.”
-
-James Collingwood stood by his master’s side, his sorrowful countenance
-contrasting sadly with that military air which seemed to disdain all
-exhibition of weakness; and with him, the sole other attendant of his
-sufferings, Cairn of Coleraine, who once in this same spot had welcomed
-Calantha, then a fair and lovely bride, spotless in vestal purity,
-and dearer to his master’s heart than the very life-blood that gave
-it vigour. He now poured some opiate drops into a glass, and placed
-it in the feeble hand which was stretched forth to receive it. “Ah!
-father, do not leave me,” said his little son, pressing towards him.
-“My mother looked as you do before she left me: and will you go also?
-What then will become of me?” Tears gushed into Lord Avondale’s eyes,
-and trickled down his faded cheeks. “God will bless and protect my
-boy,” he said, endeavouring to raise himself sufficiently to press
-his little cherub lips. It was like a blushing rose, placed by the
-hand of affection upon a lifeless corpse—so healthful bloomed the
-child, so pale the parent stem!
-
-“How feeble you are, dear father,” said Harry: “your arms tremble when
-you attempt to raise me. I will kneel by you all this night, and pray
-to God to give you strength. You say there is none loves you. I love
-you; and Collingwood loves you; and many, many more. So do not leave
-us.”—“And I love you too, dear, dear Harry,” cried Sir Richard, his
-voice nearly suffocated by his grief; “and all who knew you honoured
-and loved you; and curse be on those who utter one word against him.
-He is the noblest fellow that ever lived.” “Uncle Richard, don’t cry,”
-said the boy: “it grieves him so to see you. Don’t look so sad, dear
-father. Why is your hand so cold: can nothing warm it?” “Nothing,
-Harry.—Do not weep so bitterly, dear uncle.” “I have suffered agony.
-Now, all is peace.—God bless you and my children.” “Open your dear
-eyes once again, father, to look on me. Oh! Collingwood, see they are
-closed:—Will he not look on me ever again? My sister Annabel shall
-speak to him.—My dear mamma is gone, or she would sooth him.—Oh,
-father, if you must leave me too, why should I linger here? How silent
-he is!”—“He sleeps, Sir,”—“I think he does not sleep, Collingwood.
-I think this dreadful stillness is what every one calls death. Oh!
-father, look at me once more. Speak one dear word only to say you
-love me still.” “I can’t bear this,” said Sir Richard, hurrying from
-the room. “I can’t bear it.”
-
-The hour was that in which the setting sun had veiled its last bright
-ray in the western wave:—it was the evening of the tenth of October!!!
-
-On the evening of the tenth of October, Glenarvon had reached the coast
-of Holland, and joined the British squadron under Admiral Duncan. The
-Dutch were not yet in sight; but it was known that they were awaiting
-the attack at a few miles distance from shore, between Camperdown
-and Egmont. It was so still that evening that not a breath of air
-rippled upon the glassy waters. It was at that very instant of time,
-when Avondale, stretched upon his bed, far from those scenes of glory
-and renown in which his earlier years had been distinguished, had
-breathed his last; that Glenarvon, whilst walking the deck, even in
-the light of departing day, laughingly addressed his companions: “Fear
-you to die?” he cried, to one upon whose shoulder he was leaning. “I
-cannot fear. But as it may be the fate of all, Hardhead,” he said,
-still addressing his lieutenant, “if I die, do you present my last
-remembrance to my friends.—Ha! have I any?—Not I, i’faith.
-
-“Now fill up a bowl, that I may pledge you; and let him whose
-conscience trembles, shrink. I cannot fear;
-
-     “For, come he slow, or come he fast,
-     It is but Death that comes at last.”
-
-He said, and smiled——that smile so gentle and persuasive, that only
-to behold it was to love. Suddenly he beheld before him on the smooth
-wave a form so pale, so changed, that, but for the sternness of
-that brow, the fixed and hollow gaze of that dark eye, he had not
-recognized, in the fearful spectre, the form of Lord Avondale “Speak
-your reproaches as a man would utter them,” he said. “Ask of me the
-satisfaction due for injuries; but stand not thus before me, like a
-dream, in the glare of day—like a grim vision of the night, in the
-presence of thousands.”—The stern glazed eye moved not: the palpable
-form continued. Lord Glenarvon gazed till his eyes were strained with
-the effort, and every faculty was benumbed and overpowered.
-
-Then fell a drowsiness over his senses which he could not conquer;
-and he said to those who addressed him, “I am ill:—watch by me whilst
-I sleep.” He threw himself upon his cloak, listless and fatigued, and
-sunk into a heavy sleep. But his slumbers were broken and disturbed;
-and he could not recover from the unusual depression of his spirits.
-Every event of his short life crowded fast upon his memory:—scenes long
-forgotten recurred:—he thought of broken vows, of hearts betrayed,
-and of all the perjuries and treacheries of a life given up to love.
-But reproaches and bitterness saddened over every dear remembrance,
-and he participated, when too late, in the sufferings he had inflicted.
-
-All was now profoundly still: the third watch sounded. The lashing of
-the waves against the sides of the ship—the gentle undulating motion,
-again lulled a weary and perturbed spirit to repose. Suddenly upon
-the air he heard a fluttering, like the noise of wings, which fanned
-him while he slept. Gazing intently, he fancied he beheld a fleeting
-shadow pass up and down before him, as if the air, thickening into
-substance, became visible to the eye, till it produced a form clothed
-in angelic beauty and unearthly brightness. It was some moments before
-he could bring to his remembrance whom it resembled,—till a smile,
-all cheering, and a look of one he had seen in happier days, told
-him it was Calantha. Her hair flowed loosely on her shoulders, while
-a cloud of resplendent white supported her in the air, and covered
-her partly from his view. Her eyes shone with serene lustre; and her
-cheeks glowed with the freshness of health:—not as when impaired by
-sickness and disease, he had seen her last—not as when disappointment
-and the sorrows of the world had worn her youthful form—but renovated,
-young, and bright, with superior glory she now met his ardent gaze;
-and, in a voice more sweet than music, thus addressed him:
-
-“Glenarvon,” she said, “I come not to reproach you. It is Calantha’s
-spirit hovers round you. Away with dread; for I come to warn and
-to save you. Awake—arise, before it be too late. Let the memory of
-the past fade from before you: live to be all you still may be—a
-country’s pride, a nation’s glory! Ah, sully not with ill deeds the
-bright promise of a life of fame.” As she spoke, a light as from
-heaven irradiated her countenance, and, pointing with her hand to
-the east, he saw the sun burst from the clouds which had gathered
-round it, and shine forth in all its lustre. “Are you happy?” cried
-Glenarvon, stretching out his arms to catch the vision, which hovered
-near.—“Calantha, speak to me: am I still loved? Is Glenarvon dear
-even thus in death?”
-
-The celestial ray which had lighted up the face of the angel, passed
-from before it at these words; and he beheld the form of Calantha, pale
-and ghastly, as when last they had parted. In seeming answer to his
-question, she pressed her hands to her bosom in silence, and casting
-upon him a look so mournful that it pierced his heart, she faded from
-before his sight, dissolving like the silvery cloud into thin air.
-At that moment, as he looked around, the bright sun which had risen
-with such glorious promise, was seen to sink in mists of darkness,
-and with its setting ray, seemed to tell him that his hour was come,
-that the light of his genius was darkened, that the splendour of his
-promise was set for ever: but he met the awful warning without fear.
-
-And now again he slept; and it seemed to him that he was wandering in
-a smooth vale, far from the haunts of men. The place was familiar to
-his memory:—it was such as he had often seen amidst the green plains
-of his native country, in the beautiful season of spring; and ever
-and anon upon his ear he heard the church-bell sounding from afar
-off, while the breeze, lately risen, rustled among the new leaves
-and long grass. Fear even touched a heart that never yet had known
-its power. The shadows varied on the plain before him, and threw a
-melancholy gloom on the surrounding prospect. Again the church-bell
-tolled; but it was not the merry sound of some village festival, nor
-yet the more sober bell that calls the passenger to prayer. No, it
-was that long and pausing knell, which, as it strikes the saddened
-ear, tells of some fellow-creature’s eternal departure from this lower
-world: and ever while it tolled, the dreary cry of woe lengthened
-upon the breeze, mourning a spirit fled. Glenarvon thought he heard
-a step slowly stealing towards him; he even felt the breath of some
-one near; and raising his eye in haste, he perceived the thin form
-of a woman close beside him. In her arms she held a child, more wan
-than herself. At her approach, a sudden chill seemed to freeze the
-life-blood in his heart.
-
-He gazed again. “Is it Calantha?” said he. “Ah, no! it was the form
-of Alice.” She appeared as one returned from the grave, to which
-long mourning and untimely woes had brought her.—“Clarence,” she said
-in a piercing voice, “since you have abandoned me I have known many
-sorrows. The God of Mercy deal not with you as you have dealt with
-me!” She spoke no more; but gazing in agony upon an infant which lay
-at her bosom, she looked up to Heaven, from whence her eyes slowly
-descended upon Glenarvon. She then approached, and taking the babe
-from her breast, laid it cold and lifeless on his heart. It was the
-chill of death which he felt—when, uttering a deep groan, he started
-up with affright.
-
-The drops stood upon his forehead—his hands shook—he looked round him,
-but no image like the one he had beheld was near. The whiteness of
-the eastern sky foretold the approach of day. The noise and bustle in
-the ship, the signal songs of the sailors, and the busy din around,
-told him that he had slept enough. The Dutch squadron now appeared
-at a distance upon the sea: every thing was ready for attack.
-
-That day Lord Glenarvon fought with more than his usual bravery. He
-was the soul and spirit which actuated and moved every other. At twelve
-the engagement became general, every ship coming into action with its
-opponent. It was about four in the afternoon, when the victory was
-clearly decided in favour of the British flag. The splendid success
-was obtained by unequalled courage, and heroic valour. The result
-it is not for me to tell. Many received the thanks of their brave
-commander on that day; many returned in triumph to the country, and
-friends who proudly awaited them. The Emerald frigate, and its gallant
-captain, prepared likewise to return; but Glenarvon, after the action,
-was taken ill. He desired to be carried upon deck; and, placing his
-hand upon his head, while his eyes were fixed, he enquired of those
-around if they did not hear a signal of distress, as if from the
-open sea. He then ordered the frigate to approach the spot whence
-the guns were fired. A fresh breeze had arisen: the Emerald sailed
-before the wind. To his disturbed imagination the same solemn sound
-was repeated in the same direction.—No sail appeared—still the light
-frigate pursued. “Visions of death and horror persecute me,” cried
-Glenarvon. “What now do I behold—a ship astern! It is singular. Do
-others see the same, or am I doomed to be the sport of these absurd
-fancies? Is it that famed Dutch merchantman, condemned through all
-eternity to sail before the wind, which seamen view with terror,
-whose existence until this hour I discredited?” He asked this of his
-companions; but the smile with which Glenarvon spoke these words, gave
-place to strong feelings of surprise and alarm.—Foreign was the make
-of that ship; sable were its sails; sable was the garb of its crew;
-but ghastly white and motionless were the countenances of all. Upon
-the deck there stood a man of great height and size, habited in the
-apparel of a friar. His cowl concealed his face; but his crossed hands
-and uplifted attitude announced his profession. He was in prayer:—he
-prayed much, and earnestly—it was for the souls of his crew. Minute
-guns were fired at every pause; after which a slow solemn chaunt
-began; and the smoke of incense ascended till it partially concealed
-the dark figures of the men.
-
-Glenarvon watched the motions of that vessel in speechless horror;
-and now before his wondering eyes new forms arose, as if created by
-delirium’s power to augment the strangeness of the scene. At the feet
-of the friar there knelt a form so beautiful—so young, that, but for
-the foreign garb and well remembered look, he had thought her like the
-vision of his sleep, a pitying angel sent to watch and save him.—“O
-fiora bella,” he cried; “first, dearest, and sole object of my devoted
-love, why now appear to wake the sleeping dæmons in my breast—to
-madden me with many a bitter recollection?” The friar at that moment,
-with relentless hand, dashed the fair fragile being, yet clinging
-round him for mercy, into the deep dark waters. “Monster,” exclaimed
-Glenarvon, “I will revenge that deed even in thy blood.” There was
-no need:—the monk drew slowly from his bosom the black covering that
-enshrouded his form. Horrible to behold!—that bosom was gored with
-deadly wounds, and the black spouting streams of blood, fresh from
-the heart, uncoloured by the air, gushed into the wave. “Cursed be
-the murderer in his last hour!—Hell waits its victim.”—Such was the
-chaunt which the sable crew ever and anon sung in low solemn tones.
-
-Well was it understood by Glenarvon, though sung in a foreign dialect.
-“Comrades,” he exclaimed, “do you behold that vessel? Am I waking,
-or do my eyes, distempered by some strange malady, deceive me? Bear
-on. It is the last command of Glenarvon. Set full the sails. Bear
-on,—bear on: to death or to victory!—It is the enemy of our souls you
-see before you. Bear on—to death, to vengeance; for all the fiends of
-hell have conspired our ruin.” They sailed from coast to coast—They
-sailed from sea to sea, till lost in the immensity of ocean. Gazing
-fixedly upon one object, all maddening with superstitious terror, Lord
-Glenarvon tasted not of food or refreshment. His brain was burning.
-His eye, darting forward, lost not for one breathing moment sight of
-that terrific vision.
-
-Madness to phrenzy came upon him. In vain his friends, and many of the
-brave companions in his ship, held him struggling in their arms. He
-seized his opportunity. “Bear on,” he cried: “pursue, till death and
-vengeance—” and throwing himself from the helm, plunged headlong into
-the waters. They rescued him; but it was too late. In the struggles
-of ebbing life, even as the spirit of flame rushed from the bands of
-mortality, visions of punishment and hell pursued him. Down, down,
-he seemed to sink with horrid precipitance from gulf to gulf, till
-immured in darkness; and as he closed his eyes in death, a voice,
-loud and terrible, from beneath, thus seemed to address him:
-
-“Hardened and impenitent sinner! the measure of your iniquity is
-full: the price of crime has been paid: here shall your spirit dwell
-for ever, and for ever. You have dreamed away life’s joyous hour,
-nor made atonement for error, nor denied yourself aught that the
-fair earth presented you. You did not controul the fiend in your
-bosom, or stifle him in his first growth: he now has mastered you,
-and brought you here: and you did not bow the knee for mercy whilst
-time was given you: now mercy shall not be shewn. O, cry upwards
-from these lower pits, to the friends and companions you have left,
-to the sinner who hardens himself against his Creator—who basks in
-the ray of prosperous guilt, nor dreams that his hour like yours is
-at hand. Tell him how terrible a thing is death; how fearful at such
-an hour is remembrance of the past. Bid him repent, but he shall
-not hear you. Bid him amend, but like you he shall delay till it is
-too late. Then, neither his arts, nor talents, nor his possessions,
-shall save him, nor friends, though leagued together more than ten
-thousand strong; for the axe of justice must fall. God is just; and
-the spirit of evil infatuates before he destroys.”
-
-
-THE END.
-
-
-     B. Clarke, Printer, Well Street, London.
-
-*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 3 (OF
-3) ***
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