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.