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diff --git a/old/68776-0.txt b/old/68776-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f61fb50..0000000 --- a/old/68776-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5047 +0,0 @@ -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) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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