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 takethe 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. Hetook 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 lovegift, 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 lonelinessof 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 inthe 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 withwild 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 wasat 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.
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 takethe 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. Hetook 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 lovegift, 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 lonelinessof 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 inthe 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 withwild 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 wasat 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.