Admiral Buchanan and Sir Richard Mowbray had, in the month of January,
returned to England, where they had received the thanks of the Lower
House for their distinguished conduct and assistance on the memorable
4th of June. The ships had been now ordered into harbour to undergo some
trifling repairs, and the Admirals had been commanded to take their
station at Cork. The enthusiasm with which the heroes were greeted on
their return, did honour to the feelings of the Irish nation. They were
invited to every house in the neighbourhood; and _fêtes_ and balls were
given to shew them respect. The Duke and Lord Avondale went forward to
receive them.
Commodore Emmet, an old acquaintance who resided at Cork, sent to offer
his house, not only to them, but to the whole party at Castle Delaval;
if they could make up their minds to accept Sir George’s invitation, and
dine on board the Royal William on the 4th of June, in commemoration of
that day and its success. There were few, if any, of those invited who
refused; but none accepted the invitation with so much enthusiasm as
Calantha. The letter from Sir George Buchanan to Lady Margaret, was as
follows:—
“Cork, June 1st, 1796.
“My dear Lady Margaret,
“In answer to a letter which I received this morning, dated May
29th, ult. I request the honour of your Ladyship’s company on
board the Royal William, now in harbour at the Cove. The Duke
and the rest of his family and party have already promised me
this favour, and I am not prepared to accept from yourself any
denial on account of those circumstances to which you allude,
and which, I entreat you sincerely to believe are, on my part,
utterly forgotten. Let me request you, then, to banish from
your memory every trifling disagreement, and to meet me, upon
an occasion so flattering as is the present to my feelings and
those of our friends, with the good-will and kindness you will
ever find in the heart of your Ladyship’s most obedient and
affectionate brother and servant,
“GEORGE BUCHANAN.”
In consequence of this invitation, Lady Margaret and the rest of the
Duke’s family set out on the morning of the 3rd, and arrived about
the hour of dinner at Commodore Emmet’s—a large brick building about a
quarter of a mile beyond the town of Cork. The Duke and Lord Avondale,
and their loquacious host, had been waiting some time, it appeared, in
much anxiety. The latter gave to each the most cordial welcome; boasted
that he could lodge them all; talked incessantly, as he shewed them to
their apartments; entreated them not to dress, as dinner awaited; and
left them, assuring each that they were the exact image of the Duke,
whom he concluded to be, like the Patriarchs of old, the father of the
whole company. His voice murmured on as he descended the stairs, whilst
Cassandra and Eloise, his daughters, appeared to offer their services
in his place.
The dining-room was small; the guests were numerous; the table was
crowded with huge pieces of meat: the Commodore talked incessantly;
his children, his servants, his brother, seemed all gifted alike with
the same spirit of activity: it was incessant bustle, hurry, noise
and contrivance. Music, cards, and tricks of every kind were displayed
during the evening; and in the morning, long before the sun had arisen,
carpenters, mechanics, ship-builders, and cooks, awoke the guests by
the noise of their respective pursuits.
Sir George Buchanan had sent to request the Duke’s company at an early
hour on the morrow. The day proved fair, the boats were ready, and they
set forth on their expedition in high spirits. Many ships and smaller
vessels were spread over the harbour; and bands of music played as they
passed. The beauty of the cove of Cork, the trees bending to the water
side, the fortress, and the animated picture which a mercantile city
presents,—delighted all. But feelings of enthusiasm kindled, in every
heart, when they approached the Royal William, and beheld its venerable
commander. The sea was rough, and the spray of the waves was at times
blown over the boat. The Miss Emmets thought of their new dresses; Sophia
of danger; and Calantha of the glory of thus proudly riding over the
billowy ocean.
Lady Margaret, though silent, was more deeply agitated:—her mind recurred
in thought to scenes long past. She was now to behold, after a lapse of
many years, her husband’s brother, whom she had treated with the most
marked indignity, and for whom she had vainly attempted to feel contempt.
He had ever conducted himself towards her with courteous, though distant
civility; but had yet shewn the most decided disapprobation of her
conduct. When she had last beheld him, she was in the full splendour
of youth and beauty, surrounded by an admiring world, and triumphant in
the possession of every earthly enjoyment. Time had but little changed
the majesty of her form; but something worse than time had stamped upon
her countenance an expression never to be effaced; while her marked brow
assumed an air of sullen pride and haughty reserve: as she ascended from
the boat into the ship, she gazed upon the long forgotten features of her
brother; and she seemed to be deeply affected. Age had bleached his once
dark locks; but he was still unimpaired in mind and form. He bent lowly
down to receive her: she felt him clasp her to his bosom; and, overcome
by this unexpected kindness, her tears streamed upon his hand:—he, too,
could have wept; but, recovering himself, with a commanding air, he came
forward to receive his other guests.
The ship was in the highest order; the feast prepared was magnificent;
and when the Duke stood up and bowed with grace to drink the Admiral’s
health, the sailors cheered, and the toast was repeated from the heart
by every individual. But he, though greatly affected and pleased at the
homage shewn him, bowed to the Duke, returning him the compliment; and
afterwards, drinking the health of Sir Richard Mowbray, said, that he
owed every thing to his assistance—that, in the glorious action of the
4th, his ship had conferred new honours on the British Navy, and he had
received the commendation of Admiral Howe.
At that name, every individual arose. The name of Howe was repeated
from mouth to mouth with an expression of exalted admiration; his
applauses were spoken by every tongue; and many an eye that had never
shewn weakness, till that moment, filled with tears at the name of their
venerable, their dear commander. Captain Emmet, during this scene, was
employed in eating voraciously of whatever he could lay hands on. Miss
Emmet, who thought it a great honor to converse with a lord, had seated
herself by the side of Lord Avondale, narrating her own adventures,
freely stating her own opinions, and pleased with herself and every
one present; while her father likewise talked at the other end of the
table, and Admiral Buchanan laughed heartily, but good humouredly at
his friend’s oppressive eloquence.
Suddenly Lord Avondale turned to Calantha and asked her if she were
ill? She knew not, she could not define the sort of pain and joy she
felt at that moment. Her eyes had long been fixed upon one who took no
part in this convivial scene—whose pale cheek and brow expressed much
of disappointed hope, or of joyless indifference. He had that youthful,
nay boyish air, which rendered this melancholy the more singular.—It
was not affected, though his manner had in it nothing of nature; but
the affectation was rather that of assumed respect for those he cared
not for, and assumed interest in topics to which he hardly attended,
than the reverse. He even affected gaiety; but the heart’s laugh never
vibrated from his lips; and, if he uttered a sentence, his eye seemed
to despise the being who listened with avidity to his observation. It
was the same,—oh! yes, it was, indeed, the same, whom Calantha had one
moment beheld at St. Alvin Priory.
His face, his features, were the same, it is true; but a deeper shade of
sadness now overspread them; and sorrow and disappointment had changed
the glow of boyish health to a more pallid hue. What! in a month? it
will be said.—A day might, perhaps, have done it. However, in the present
instance, it was not as if some sudden and defined misfortune had opprest
the soul by a single blow: it was rather as if every early hope had
long been blighted; and every aspiring energy had been destroyed. There
was nothing pleasing to gaze upon: it was mournful; but it excited not
sympathy, nor confidence. The arm was in a sling—the left arm. There
could be no doubt that he was the hero who had risked his life to save
young Linden. Was it, indeed, Lord Glenarvon whom Calantha beheld? Yes,
it was himself.—Face to face she stood before him, and gazed with eager
curiosity upon him.
Never did the hand of the Sculptor, in the full power of his art, produce
a form and face more finely wrought, so full of soul, so ever-varying in
expression. Was it possible to behold him unmoved? Oh! was it in woman’s
nature to hear him, and not to cherish every word he uttered? And,
having heard him, was it in the human heart ever again to forget those
accents, which awakened every interest, and quieted every apprehension?
The day, the hour, that very moment of time was marked and destined. It
was Glenarvon—it was that spirit of evil whom she beheld; and her soul
trembled within her, and felt its danger.
Calantha was struck suddenly, forcibly struck; yet the impression made
upon her, was not in Glenarvon’s favour. The eye of the rattle-snake, it
has been said, once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it with terror and
alarm: the bird, thus charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it sings
its last sweet lay; flutters its little pinions in the air; then falls
like a shot before its destroyer, unable to fly from his fascination.
Calantha bowed, therefore with the rest, pierced to the heart at once by
the maddening power that destroys alike the high and low; but she liked
not the wily turn of his eye, the contemptuous sneer of his curling
lip, the soft passionless tones of his voice;—it was not nature, or if
it was nature, not that to which she had been accustomed;—not the open,
artless expression of a guileless heart.
Starting from the kind of dream in which she had for one moment been
wrapped, she now looked around her. The affectation with which she veiled
the interest she felt, is scarce accountable.
Lord Glenarvon was the real object of her thoughts, yet she appeared
alone to be occupied with every other. She laughed with Lord Trelawney;
talked to the Miss Emmets; examined with interest every part of the
ship, carelessly approaching the very edge of it; yet once she met that
glance, which none ever who had seen, could forget, and she stopped
as if rivetted to the earth.—He smiled; but whether it was a smile of
approbation, or of scorn, she could not discover: the upper lip was
curled, as if in derision; but the hand that was stretched out to save
her, as she stood on the brink of the vessel, and the soft silvery voice
which gently admonished her to beware, lest one false step should plunge
her headlong into the gulph below, soon re-assured her.
It was late before the Duke took leave of the admiral, who promised to
breakfast with the Commodore the ensuing day. The guns once more were
fired; the band played as for their arrival; but the music now seemed
to breathe a sadder strain; for it was heard, softened by distance, and
every stroke of the oars rendered the sounds more and more imperfect.
The sun was setting, and cast its lustre on the still waves: even the
loquacity of the Emmets was for a few moments suspended; it was a moment
which impressed the heart with awe; it was a scene never to be forgotten.
The splendour of conquest, the tumult of enthusiasm, the aged veteran,
and more than all, perhaps, that being who seemed early wrecked in the
full tide of misfortune, were all fixed indelibly in Calantha’s memory.
Future times might bring new interests and events; magnificence might
display every wonderful variety; but the impression of that scene never
can be effaced.