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.