Chapter III: Part 3

When they came up he was on one knee, with her head leaning on the other, and gazing with horror on her pale face. The pallid hue of his own, told all that he feared, to the Duke and Sir Anthony. But the ladies found the case not so desperate; and by the help of essences soon restored the fair sufferer to animation.

Sir Anthony proposed her being taken into the house. But on attempting to rise, she sunk back, almost fainting a second time from the excessive pain of a sprained ancle. Wharton called for a sofa, which being brought, the invalid was carefully placed in it on cushions; and the gentlemen present, insisted on being its bearers into the castle. As the sofa was raised from the ground, Violante turned to Louis with a languid smile; "you will not leave me, Mr. de Montemar?" said she, and stretched out her hand to him, with a look more persuasive than her words.

To disappoint the wish and expectation these words and action implied, he found impossible.--He had no suspicion that she was running to intercept him, when the accident happened; and now, turning with a respectful bow to her summons, he silently followed the sofa into the breakfast-room. Her gallant bearers placed it by the fire, at a small distance from the table. The Duke offered his services to the reclining beauty; but she would accept of no hand to bring her coffee and toast, but that of Louis: saying, that he who wounded, was in duty bound to administer the restoratives. Recovered from his dismay at what might have been the fatal effect of the accident he had so unintentionally occasioned, he gladly took the opportunity to make the _amende honourable_, and express his concern at what had happened.

Time rolled away, and he heard no tidings of the boat. It was an unusual inattention in his uncle's servants, who always vied with each other who should be most prompt in obeying every wish of their beloved Mr. de Montemar. But Wharton had contrived to have the little vessel countermanded, without appearing in the orders. Ignorant of this, Louis seized the first moment the invalid addressed herself to another person; and in a low voice asked the butler whether the boat were in waiting. The man, not aware of the commands which had been given one way or the other, simply answered the tide had been at ebb two hours. Stung with vexation, Louis started from his chair. Violante observed his disorder, and softly enquired the cause.--It was no sooner explained, than casting on him a reproachful look, she burst into tears and turned her head silently away. Louis felt himself in a very embarrassing situation; and almost unconsciously resuming his seat beside her, he drew a vexatious sigh as he said to himself,--"I am caught, and coiled in spite of myself!"

Violante mistook its meaning; and withdrawing her hand from her eyes, gave him a glance that mantled his face with crimson. Though apparently engaged in gay badinage with the other ladies, Wharton did not lose an expression of his friend's countenance, as the alluring Frenchwoman continued to converse with him in a tone of mingled tenderness and raillery. "If he stand this," thought the Duke, "he has even more ice, of a certain kind, in his composition, than he forced me this morning to believe!"

Sir Anthony entered from the hall, calling aloud, "Who rides this morning? I have ordered horses round to the court."

"De Montemar, what are you for?" said the Duke, "I see victory is in the hands where I would always have it; but as the ladies may not wish to have their captive in their way all day;--are you inclined for a steeple-hunt this morning?"

Louis eagerly embraced the proposal.--Violante coloured, touched his arm; and pressing it with strong emotion, whispered something in his ear. Wharton laughed, and turned on his heel. Louis believed himself turned idiot. Abandoned of his usual presence of mind, he knew not what to say, or how to look; though he felt perfectly resolved not to sleep another night in the castle, while it contained its present extraordinary inmates. The seductive scenes of the preceding night, seemed disenchanted before him; men and women, all were divested of their magic garments, excepting Wharton, and he still wore the vesture of light.

"Why will he mingle his noble nature with creatures base as these?" again he said to himself; "are they his toys? his tools?--To what purpose?"

He was gazing on the Duke, as these thoughts occurred to him, and deepened his reflections. Wharton caught the look; its expression went through him: but waving his hand, as if that would glance it aside, he shook his head sportively and exclaimed; "You want me to pledge my guarantee to Violante, that there shall be no more desertions!--Believe me, pretty one! For the bright Pleiades are not more inseparable above, than are your swain and humble servant below."

"----We rise and set together."

He spoke the last sentence without any reference to the subject which had first suggested the idea; and having in the utterance as much forgotten Violante, as though she had never existed, he put his arm through Louis's, and turned with him out of the room.

"De Montemar," said he, as they crossed the hall; "the conversation which was interrupted this morning, must be finished. I have put a packet open into your hand, which must be sealed this evening; else the vagrant leaves may follow the sybil's trick; and I know nothing of the gatherer, till that doughty Lictor, Jack Ketch, makes me his bow on Tower-Hill." "Surely, my Lord, you cannot doubt my honour, if you could my heart?"

"I will doubt every thing, till that heart is laid open to me.--I vowed to have no disguises with you.--Repay me in kind.--Heart for heart, De Montemar, is the only true exchange!"

Louis did not immediately answer; for he felt what he would not fairly acknowledge to himself, that a mist did sometime appear to rise over this professed frankness of the Duke, which often made it uncertain whether he had really shewn his heart at all.--In the midst of a sentiment that seemed direct from the soul, a sudden quirk of fancy would present itself, that turned all athwart into whim and laughter. And the freest disclosure would as frequently start aside, to appear nothing more than a fantastic figure of speech, or break off into irreconcilable fragments, without apparent aim or connexion. But for all this, an apology came to the breast of his friend. "He has embraced the desperate fortunes of a dethroned prince.--And perhaps it depends upon the caution of this, that prince's ablest confident, whether they are to be redeemed, or finally consigned to despair!"

The horses were at the hall door; and Sir Anthony, and his other male guests, mounted. On sight of the friends, he called to them, and the grooms bringing forward more horses, the Duke vaulted into his seat, and Louis, with a sensation of a double release, gladly followed his example.--As they turned merrily down the rocky path-way which led by the ancient fosse to the open country, every man had something to say according to his own humour, of the pleasures of the preceding night; but all concurred in so overcharging their anticipations of the coming evening, that it was easily to be foreseen the revelry of the past, would be encreased to an excess in the future, which would destroy all, by drowning pleasure and consciousness in the same stream.

Sir Anthony appeared to take it for granted, his nephew had completely surrendered himself to the impulse which governed them all; but with redoubling disgust, Louis tried to make his uncle comprehend, that so far from intending to partake the projected festivity, he would not go back to the castle, but return to Lindisfarne immediately after their ride. Astonishment, remonstrance, raillery, entreaties, reproaches; all were successively and successlessly brought forward: Louis found his spirit rise with the clamour of opposition. He was now steadily doing, what he always knew was his only proper conduct; the padlock which had seemed to chain down his faculties under a sense of committing wrong, now burst asunder, and he was all himself again.--Sir Anthony affected not to believe him serious; talked of Violante, then declared, it was his belief, he only wanted to be forced to do the thing he liked; and whispering the noisy sheriff and others, a loud laugh peeled through the party, and they instantly drew around Louis.

"What do you mean, gentlemen?" cried he, glad to be manually opposed by others beside his uncle.

"To bear you, as the Loves bore Adonis"--cried Wharton gaily, and planting his steed also, before that of his friend.

"_Et tu Brute?_" cried Louis; and striking his spurs into the sides of his horse, the high mettled animal sprang through the foremost rank, dispersed the rest; and speeding forward with the wings of the wind, was plunged by his determined rider into the receding waters of the tide.

CHAP. V.

While these events were agitating the dissipated circle at the castle, the simple family on the opposite shore were engaged in far different scenes.--Its Pastor opened his pious views to the noble-minded Santa Cruz; and the young people obeyed the venerable man's commands, to enjoy the vernal hour of day, with all the zest of their as vernal years.

Cornelia conducted Don Ferdinand under the ivy-crowned wall which sheltered her uncle's flower-garden. He admired the disposition of its parterres, and wondered how such beautiful chinasters, balsams, and holly-hocks, could bloom in so northern a climate. Alice led him to the aromatic spot where she had stationed her bees, and shewed him the beds of thyme, lavender, and other sweet herbs she had planted for their food. A little onward, raised on a low mound, stood an old sun-dial. Its bank was covered with mignonette; and many of Alice's industrious favorites were loading their wings with its extracted honey. She gathered a cluster of the flowers, and gave it to Ferdinand. Cornelia stooped to pluck a piece of sweetbriar, but the prickles prevented her: "I want my cousin's dextrous fingers here," said she with a smile.

"Rather his bold ones," cried Alice as she saw Ferdinand break off the bough, and present it to her sister, leaving the thorns in his hand.

"If he be as happy as I am, in being wounded in so sweet a cause," rejoined Ferdinand, "Mr. de Montemar is more to be envied than any man on earth."

"How so?" enquired Alice, with an incredulous laugh, "I see no pleasure in being pricked and scratched for the prettiest flower in the world!"

"But I do, sweet Alice!" said he with a gallant smile, as he presented another branch of the shrub to her. With a faint blush, she glanced at her sister, but Cornelia, thinking at the moment of the truant Louis, had not heard what was said; and Alice, seeing no surprise in her sister at the familiarity of the term, supposed it was a foreign custom; and unlatching a wicket which led to the pasture-land, bounded with the lightness of a fawn to the top of an adjacent hillock. She stood in the midst of its heathy grass, calling on her sister to follow her, for that was the spot whence they might shew Don Ferdinand the objects of the island to best advantage. Cornelia and her companion were soon by her side; and as the young Spaniard's excursive eye shot at once across the island's self, to the surrounding ocean, he perceived a cluster of rocks to the north, which shone in the noonday sun like gems on the belt of the horizon.

"I have heard," said he, smiling, "that in days of yore, a band of wandering sages, sailing in these seas, discovered certain islands encompassed with floods of light, and inhabited by blissful souls. These fortunate adventurers called them the Islands of Blessedness. Since that time no traveller has been able to find them. But, as I am a countryman of the great Columbus, I venture to hope the happy discovery was reserved for me; and that _there they are_!"

Both sisters remarked the direction of his eyes; and laughing heartily at the compliment his fancy had paid to the most barren of their rocks, told him, they were the Ferne Islands. "And so far from being blessed places," said Alice, "my uncle would never allow Cornelia or me to go near them, the landing is so dangerous." "But Louis often visits them with the kelp-gatherers," rejoined Cornelia, "and while their fires reduce the weed to ashes, he generally throws himself on a jutting rock over the sea, to command the view, and sketch the group. Were you to walk these shores on a fine evening at that season of the year, you would admire the picturesque vapour from the kelp-fires, as its wreathing volumes sail away, and mingle with the clouds."

"But you would not mistake the kelp-gatherers for blessed spirits!" returned the gay Alice, "nor run the risque of your life to draw their portraits! But Louis loves roaming about amongst odd places, as much as you may love a quiet walk, and a bunch of sweet flowers;" added she, observing the delight with which Ferdinand continued to smell at the mignonette, "and so, we must forgive him."

Ferdinand was gratified at her playful reference to her fragrant gift, and answered, "I do not believe that he can love rock or quicksand better than I could love and cherish some of the sweet flowers of this island, which he seems content to cast away!--and, pardon me, if I a little doubt the taste of your adventurous cousin?"

The sisters did not quite understand this speech, which seemed to begin in sport, but certainly ended with a serious tone.

"You mistake my cousin," said Cornelia, "if you suppose he chuses perilous excursions, from a vanity to shew his courage.--Courage is so natural to him, that he never thinks about it.--The activity of his mind makes exercise necessary to him; and the fearlessness of his temper renders that easy to him, which might be difficult, if not impossible to timid characters.--But indeed, his affection for us has been the most frequent cause of risquing his safety; for he deems no attempt too hazardous, by which he can gratify a wish of my mother, or a desire of my sister or myself."

"My uncle will tell you, such have been his ways from a child," cried Alice, "and from the first of my recollection, I remember these frightful tokens of his love! Coming in with curious aquatic plants he had torn from some hardly accessible rock, for my uncle's herbal; or making his appearance with shells for me, which he had swam for, and sought in the sand bank at the point-head. I am sure I have often admired their beauties through my tears; but he never would believe we could be frightened."

"Indeed," rejoined Cornelia, "after old fisher-John's two sons were drowned, I have known Louis absent for hours on the open sea in the poor man's boat, helping him to draw his nets. For nothing is troublesome, or dangerous to him, that is connected with affection or benevolence."

"Ah, those daring expeditions suit your taste, Cornelia!" said Alice, with a shudder; "You, like Louis, love _to ride in the whirlwind and direct the storm_! I can never forget his absence one whole night during a frightful tempest, when we did not know but that each horrid blast we listened to, was that which was sinking him to a watery grave. My terrors cost me a fit of illness,--and then my uncle made him see the cruelty, and even wickedness, of being rashly brave; for ever since, he has been careful not to put himself in any needless danger."

Ferdinand sighed heavily, as both sisters separately spoke. He felt a sense of feebleness in his own character, which made him envy the enterprising spirit of Louis. "Here," murmured he to himself, "is indeed the fire of youth, the animating principle of future greatness; while that which burns in my veins, withers my very vitals, and consumes every nobler element within me. Wretch that I am,--reprobate, and accursed!" His lips moved almost audibly, as his accusing spirit uttered the last words; and unconsciously turning from the sisters, he walked hastily down the hill towards the cliff.

Cornelia and Alice gazed, on each other, astonished; "That is very odd!" cried the latter, "Did you observe his countenance?"

"Yes, he suddenly knit his brows; and I thought looked quite strange!"

"Let us follow him," rejoined Alice, "if he go on at that rate, and not being aware, he may slip down some of the fissures into the sea."

Alice hastened forward as she spoke; and not merely walking, but running, joined him as he had gained the top of the cliff. Cornelia came up soon after; and seeking to divert Ferdinand from whatever painful thoughts possessed him, she uttered the first idea that presented itself, and exclaimed as she approached, "You two stand there, your garments waving in the breeze, like Adam and the angel overlooking the earth and its waters."

"To me," answered Ferdinand, "it might well be called the hill of paradise; if you and your sweet Alice, would indeed be to me what the sister-angels were to the erring father of mankind!"

Alice looked from him to her sister, with a tender pity that did not escape its object. Again he found a balmy warmth encircle his heart. The freezing hand of despair, which a moment before had obliterated all other impressions, was again withdrawn. "Have I," said he to himself, "indeed interested this innocent creature? I, so unworthy, so self-despised!" He drew towards her, as she followed Cornelia, who turned through some broken craggs, and crossing a ravine, brought them forth on a ridge that faced the west. At their feet lay the strait which divides the two shores. The tide was retreating, and rapidly discovering the sands and sunken rocks which form the foundation of the stupendous cliff on which stand the towers of Bamborough.

"What princely fortress is that?" demanded Ferdinand, surprised into exclamation by the commanding line of coast; and the magnitude of the warlike structure which crowned its summit.

"It is the castle of my mother's ancestors," replied Cornelia; "under that parental roof, when my dear grandfather lived, she passed many a happy day; and there my sister Alice was born."

Ferdinand could not forbear looking from its regal grandeur, to the two lovely beings by his side: the offspring of _the barons bold_, who in former ages had poured the storm of sovereignty from those embattled walls! and they were content to pass their lives in an obscure parsonage, on an almost deserted island!--Their garments were simple as their lot; but the air of the one still demanded the coronet of her ancestors; while the other, fair, tender, and unaspiring, seemed ready to shrink from the threatening front of what had once been the stronghold of her fathers. "Bright Cornelia!" said he to himself, as he looked on the castle, and listened to her observations; "your lover may be he who courts the wonderful, the wild, on the dizzy steep or the wide ocean!--But my heart--had it not engendered the vulture which preys upon its vitals!--would cleave to seclusion and peace, in the bosom of your timid Alice."

Cornelia described the extent of ground which the fortress occupied; enumerated its towers, and assigned to each the era of its erection. She pointed with particular complacency to the white walls of the formidable dungeon; and quoted Archives in Durham Abbey, to prove that its foundation was the work of a Roman Emperor. She named the Saxon Kings, from Ida to Egbert, who had raised their standard on its roof; and made Ferdinand distinguish a high-grated window, which yet went by the name of Queen Bebba's chamber.

"But what is that in the sea yonder?" asked her auditor; who had accidentally looked down to the dashing surges at the foot of the rock, while she was directing his attention along its summit. The eyes of the sisters followed his.

"It seems to be somebody swimming," said Cornelia.

"To me," cried Alice, "it appears to be a man on horseback."

"Hardly possible!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "what human being would be so mad? Or rather, how can any man and horse live on such a sea as that!"

"It is, indeed, rashness, in the present state of the tide;" returned Cornelia, "the sands are so shifting, and the sea so rough. But when it is quite at ebb, or before it be amply full, persons, acquainted with the track, may find safe opportunities of passing on foot or on horseback from the mainland. We have it on record, that in the persecuting reign of William the Conqueror, a little army of monks brought the relics of Saint Cuthbert from Durham to the opposite shore, and crossed with them, dry-shod, to Holy Island."

"Our cockle gatherers do the same continually," cried Alice, "but certainly never with the tide in the state it is now; and so, most likely, that is some poor smuggler flying from the revenue officers."

While Cornelia gently rebuked her, for bestowing an epithet of pity on such desperate violators of the law, the sisters descended to the beach, to gratify the curiosity of Ferdinand, who wished to see the hardy cavalier come to land. As they hastened along the cliffs, they saw the roaring waves, bright in the sun beams, break over the horse and the rider; and as the noble animal rose from the abyss, and resolutely breasted the surge, the lashing waters whitened his sides with their foam. In one of these fearful moments, a huge wave, rolling towards the island, raised the man and horse upon its immense bosom, to a height almost level with the rock; and then plunged with them into a depth that seemed to cover them for ever.

"Merciful Heaven, it is Louis!" cried Alice--in that fatal instant she had recognised him, and with frantic shrieks ran forward, as if to meet him in the ocean.

Finding that the extraordinary swell of the last wave, had not merely torn the footing of his stout hunter from the ground, but had exhausted his strength, Louis slid from his back while he was yet overwhelmed by the weight of the surge; and grasping the bridle, swam with him through the deep water. Coming to the breakers, he waded the rest; and having drawn his faithful horse on the shelving rocks, was patting his heaving sides, when he perceived the terrified party rushing down the nearest path to his assistance. Ferdinand had beheld the whole with wonder. And now that he stood apart, and saw him, with dripping garments, and uncovered head, reining and soothing the alarmed animal, that he might not injure the sisters; the astonished Spaniard could not help exclaiming to himself:

"Mounting with springing step the broad ascent,
A buoyant form of matchless shape I spied,
Attired like one whose ardent soul is bent
To win in fleetest race, by glory's side.
Flinging its changeless splendor far and wide
From his bright forehead flamed the polar star;
Through his clear cheek the ruby-tinctured tide
Shone with a healthful glow; while on the air
Back from his radiant eyes, was blown the clustering hair!"

"Louis! Louis!" exclaimed both sisters at once. Alice clasped her hands and sobbed aloud.

"Why, my dearest cousin, encounter all this danger?" cried Cornelia.

"I had no other way of getting to you." "Hear him!" cried Alice, running back to Ferdinand, and grasping his arm; "I knew it was not his own will that detained him from us. Dear, dear, Louis!" and weeping again with the excess of her joy, she unconsciously allowed Ferdinand to support her with his arm.

Louis called to a fisherman he descried among the rocks; and giving him his horse to lead to the Parsonage stables, proceeded with Cornelia to join the trembling Alice and the young Spaniard, who, his cousin had told him, was their uncle's guest.

"My sweetest Alice!" said Louis, as he approached her. The moment she heard his footstep and the salutation, she took her hands from her streaming eyes, and threw herself upon his breast.

Cornelia put her hand upon Ferdinand's arm, and impelling him gently forward; "pardon me, Don Ferdinand," said she, "but Alice is so weak in her nerves! Or rather, her tender nature is so alive to any danger threatening those she loves, that at such times she is hardly herself. She will recover soonest when left alone with our dear, but still rash cousin."

"What could impel Mr. de Montemar to so extraordinary an act?"

"His word, given to my uncle, not to be a willing inmate with Duke Wharton. His Grace is at the castle; and he and Sir Anthony, finding Louis determined to return to Lindisfarne, would have made him their prisoner, had he not effected his escape by this terrible expedient."

"But why did Mr. Athelstone require such a promise from your cousin?" asked Ferdinand; "has the gay Duke offended your uncle?"

"As he has offended all virtuous men," replied Cornelia with severity. Ferdinand regretted his inconsiderate question. Fearing the impression it might leave on the sister of Alice, he sighed deeply, and exclaimed; "happy De Montemar! to be in this blessed seclusion so strange to vice, that its first aspect causes you to fly with horror! In the wide, worthless world, Miss Coningsby, vice meets us at every turning; and, to our shame, familiarity with the object soon makes us indifferent to its deformity."

The young Spaniard again lost his self-possession; and with an almost convulsed countenance and waiving his hand for her not to follow him, he darted through a chasm into the craggs; and by their intervening projections instantly disappeared. Cornelia joined Alice and her cousin; then turned with them into the direct path to the Parsonage, that Louis might be released from his wet garments; and her uncle relieved from any alarm the arrival of the horse might have occasioned. As they walked homeward, she gave her cousin a brief account of the visit of the Marquis and his son; and he much surprised her, when he declared this to be the first intimation he had received of their arrival. Alice was not sparing of her invectives against Sir Anthony for his dishonourable concealment of her uncle's messenger; and then enquired how Louis had at last broken away from his detainers.

"That you shall hear by and by," said he, "but I don't know what Cornelia will say; for, indeed, I had a run for it!" Cornelia smiled; and he added in a graver tone; "but if Mr. Athelstone knew the Duke of Wharton was at Bamborough, what must he have thought of my apparent neglect of his summons? Of my shameless contempt of my promise."

"No circumstance could have made him believe that any neglect came from you," cried Alice, "but we never heard of that frightful Duke being there; and so my uncle thought nothing about your stay, only as he regretted your losing so much of the society of these noble Spaniards." On the first intimation of their being Spaniards, Louis had eagerly enquired whether they came from his father; and Cornelia having answered no; that their errand was the young man's health; he listened with benevolent interest to Alice's questions, of what was become of Don Ferdinand. Cornelia shook her head; and describing how he had left her, had just finished her account of his strange behaviour, when they arrived at the garden wicket. Louis entered the house by a side-door, that he might rid himself of his disordered cloaths before he saw the family; and Cornelia went to communicate his arrival to her mother and uncle.

Being satisfied of the safety of her cousin, Alice felt her anxiety re-awaken for another object. She lingered in the garden behind her sister; she returned to the wicket, and stood gazing through it; then stepping up the sun dial mound, looked from side to side over the boundaries of the garden. Ferdinand was no where to be descried. The treacherous footing among the rocks, the perpendicular cliffs, his abstracted eye, and hurrying step, again presented themselves to her thoughts; and alarmed and agitated, she turned wistfully towards the hill beyond the little gate. "From that spot, I might certainly see him.--But if he were to see me, how strange he would think it! And Cornelia too, that I should absent myself from dear Louis, after such danger!"

Just as with blush succeeding blush, she made these comments, the object of her anxiety appeared from the opposite side on the top of the hill, leaning on his father's arm. Joy, confusion, a sense of shame she had never felt before, overwhelmed her; and springing from the mound, she ran hastily across the garden. She darted into the house, as if fearful of pursuit; and stopped, panting, before the door of her uncle's library. Supposing it vacant, and glad to recover breath unobserved, she opened the door, and found herself in the presence of her uncle. He was bending before a table, and leaning his head upon his clasped hands. On hearing a step, he looked up. Alice stood confounded.

"My child," cried he, "come hither, and with me thank the giver of all good for the virtuous firmness of your cousin! He has not only preserved that bloom Of truth unimpaired, which, if once lost never is regained; but he has risqued his life this morning, to avoid a man who, I know, he loves, but whose society he relinquishes because he believes him to be as full of vices as of charms. Come Alice, and bow with me before his Almighty guardian!"

Alice sunk on her knees by the side of her uncle. She bent her face upon his fervent hands, and pressed them with her lips as her heart breathed with devotion the thanksgiving his eloquent piety pronounced.

Cornelia, having been the glad messenger to Mr. Athelstone, and afterwards to her mother, of the safe return of Louis, accompanied Mrs. Coningsby to the general sitting room. It was that in which they had welcomed the travellers the preceding night, and where they found them now. Ferdinand had cast himself into a chair, fatigued and gloomy. His father stood by the window, gazing on him in anxious silence. Mrs. Coningsby had not time to address either, before the Pastor entered. He advanced immediately to Santa Cruz; and his aged eyes not discerning the peculiar sadness of his guest, "My Lord Marquis," cried he, "Louis de Montemar is returned. And I take shame to myself for having doubted the integrity of his word."

"My son has told me sufficient of the manner in which Mr. de Montemar has kept it, to fill me with respect for his principles, and to inspire me with something more than admiration for the determination with which he has asserted them."

Before the Marquis had ceased speaking, a quick step was heard in the passage.

"Here is my dear nephew," cried Mrs. Coningsby, and the next moment he opened the door; but perceiving the strangers, he checked the buoyant gladness with which he was coming forward, and with a graceful bow advanced into the room. Alice glided in after him, and took a seat behind her mother's chair. Mr. Athelstone immediately named to him the Marquis Santa Cruz, and Don Ferdinand d'Osorio. The Marquis scanned for a moment the son of Ripperda, and the comparison he could not but draw was wormwood to the heart of a father. Nature had given Louis a passport to almost every bosom; a countenance and a figure which needed no addition to complete the perfect form of youthful nobleness.

"Mr. de Montemar," said Santa Cruz, addressing him with a sigh he could not smother, "you have this day proved how worthy you are of the name you bear. I shall be proud of your friendship for my son."

Louis found himself pressed to the breast of Don Ferdinand, who indistinctly repeated his father's assurance of esteem. Praise and flattery of dubious import were fresh in the mind of Louis; but there was something in the encomium uttered by the Marquis, an air of noble sincerity rather than of courtly politeness, that filled him with a pleasure very apparent in the luminous countenance with which he bowed in modest silence to what was said. The Marquis pursued the subject with a vehemence not usual to him; and still addressing Louis, spoke of the indispensible duty of maintaining mutual confidence between relations; and then expatiated on the honourable contest which man is commissioned to hold at all periods of his life with the ignoble impulses of sense, till the appetites are subdued, and the passions themselves become the agents of virtue.

"Few young men," added he, "would have made so bold an amendment as you you have done, on the story of Telemachus. He waited till Mentor thrust him from the rock, you cast yourself into the sea!"

Louis lost the pleasure of being approved, in the embarrassing personality of the language. He thought the Marquis went much farther than delicacy could warrant, or real respect for the object of his praise would have dictated. What had he then heard of the scene at the castle? How much was left for himself to tell his revered uncle? And whether did he indeed deserve praise or blame for his tardy yet desperate determination to escape? While this passed in his thoughts, he looked down disordered. But some were present, who read in the anxious face of Santa Cruz a dearer aim than paying a compliment to a stranger.

Mrs. Coningsby observed that Ferdinand was discomposed by his father's remarks; and the Marquis himself soon perceived the mischief he had done. He sought to excite a generous emulation in his despondent son; but he saw that his extraordinary eulogy of Louis had been received by Ferdinand as an insidious reproach to himself: and resentful of the covert infliction, he stood distant, frowning and pale. A withering chill struck to the heart of the father, who became abruptly silent. Striving to shake off his embarrassment, Louis looked up, and met the haughty glance of Don Ferdinand. When their eyes encountered, the Spaniard's ashy cheek flashed scarlet, and he turned with a scornful air towards the window. This, by offending Louis, tended to restore his self-possession. Whatever the father might intend by his excessive praise, the son evidently shewed that he despised its object. Louis thought he could not mistake the looks of the young Spaniard, and a sense of self-respect immediately dispelled his confusion.

Pleased with the truth of the Marquis's remarks, the Pastor had remained a gratified listener. But Alice, observing the gloom of Ferdinand; and half suspecting there was some reproving reference to him in what had been said, took advantage of the general pause; and hoping to change the conversation, or at least take it out of the Marquis's hands; she whispered her mother to ask of Louis the particulars of his detention at the castle. Mrs. Coningsby did so, adding, "It will interest our guests:--and I am anxious to know how you could be driven to so dangerous an alternative." Louis felt new embarrassment at this request; and in a low voice he replied to his aunt, "I am sure, madam, you will excuse me, if I do not relate circumstances in the presence of these gentlemen, which might seem to cast some blame on a relation to whom I owe gratitude, if not unquestionable respect?"

The Marquis rose from his seat, on over-hearing this answer, and taking Louis's hand; "young man," said he, "I honour you." Louis could not doubt that look, that voice, that pressure; and blaming himself for having been inclined to take a prejudice against the father, from the repelling manners of the son; he gazed long and silently on the closed door, after the Marquis and Ferdinand had left the room.

CHAP. VI.

Understanding the delicacy of Santa Cruz, in thus having withdrawn; and to leave the room free for his return, the Pastor retired with his family into the library, where they listened without interruption to a brief account of what had passed at the castle.--Louis only excepted Wharton's mysterious discourse; and a little softened his representation of the scenes with the female visitors. He did not mean to deceive in either case; but honour forbade his betraying the Duke; and the decency of a manly mind, almost unconsciously threw a shade over descriptions which confessed their nature, by shrinking from disclosure.

Mr. Athelstone scarcely spoke during the recital. He listened with an attention that considered every circumstance, and weighed every word.--The ladies were affected differently. Mrs. Coningsby inveighed against Sir Anthony, and extolled Duke Wharton for his unexpected interference in favour of her nephew's return. Cornelia expressed her wonder that women of any respectability could bring themselves to share the boisterous society of the baronet and his companions.--And Alice asked, as actresses must copy from the best models, whether it could really be the fashion in London and abroad, for women to be so very easy with men?--"If it is," said she, looking at her sister; "how very stupid Don Ferdinand must think you and me!"

Louis smiled, and thought; "Did you know all the ease of those ladies, how little would you have sullied those pure lips with even the mention of their names." But he only answered, "My dear Alice, licence in your sex is more complimented than respected by ours.--Modesty in woman must be the fashion with men of principle in every country."

When he closed his relation, Mrs. Coningsby rose from her chair in vehement indignation at her brother; who had thus sought to gratify a whim, at the expence of his own honour, and the risque of his nephew's life.--The sisters trembled at what might have been the fatal consequence of Louis's desperate escape. And to calm the three, by diverting their attention to what he felt they were all most inhospitably neglecting, Mr. Athelstone proposed their seeking the Marquis and his son; while he remained a few minutes with Louis, to make some necessary observations on what they had just heard.

Louis foresaw that his uncle meant to enquire more particularly respecting the Duke, than he had thought fit to do before his nieces.--When they had left the room, the good old man drew his chair close to his nephew, and with earnest tenderness asked him _if he had disclosed all_?--The cheeks of Louis kindled and his eyes fell.

"My child," cried the Pastor, "these answer for you.--You have not!--I guessed it, from your manner when you spoke of those women, and that dissembling Wharton.--Fear not to confess to me.--What is it that you have withheld from me?"

"Nothing, I trust, my dearest Sir, to justify this extraordinary agitation in yourself."

"Thank God! Thank God.--That open brow is still unmarked with consciousness of guilt.--Oh, my child, may it be ever thus with thee!--Preserve that innocence, so bright, so peace-bestowing! and never hesitate doing as you did this morning, risking your life in its preservation."

"I never will, my uncle:--So help me, heaven!" A solemn pause ensued.--When Mr. Athelstone again spoke, the restored serenity of his mind was seen in the benign composure with which he proceeded to discuss the very subject which, a few moments before, had occasioned him so much emotion. He at once expressed his belief that his nephew's contest at Bamborough had been of a more serious nature than he had yet allowed; and he hoped he was not uncharitable in suspecting that Duke Wharton made those theatrical ladies his tools to detain Louis, while he played the disinterested part of promoting his release. Louis would not admit this inference; but he acknowledged that his uncle had guessed right with regard to the share the ladies had in protracting his stay. He ingenuously told the whole relating to them; and did not even disguise his own delusion of senses during the midnight revels.

The venerable Pastor lifted up his clasped hands:--"Anthony! vile Anthony!" were his ejaculations during the recital.--"Oh, Louis," cried he, "the bane of your life was in that hour!--and in the blindness of your cheated imagination, had you put forth your hand to take the poisoned cup----alas, dear child of my sainted niece, how near were these grey hairs being brought with shame and sorrow to the grave!"--He paused; then resumed; for Louis was too much affected to interrupt him.

"I cannot excuse the Duke.--I know him to be profligate; though to you he affects to despise the companions of his debasing pleasures. These women were in his train; and I firmly believe he excited their practices on your inexperienced heart."

"How?--Why?"

"That he might have you in his power."

"For what? my uncle." He had no sooner asked the question, than recollection of the park discourse, answered him.

"I know not for what," replied Mr. Athelstone, "Probably he does not exactly know himself.--But there is a principle in wickedness that delights in laying human virtue waste, merely for the sake of destruction! The prince of evil was a _murderer from the beginning_! and so are all his followers."

"But my dear Sir, taking it for granted that Duke Wharton had an object to gain with me, how would my subjection to the seductions of these women, put me in his power?"

"He would have been your master in the new science you began to learn.--He would have governed your passions by the wiles of these wantons;--and, self-abased, and dependant on him for the wretched wages of your sin; how abject would have been your slavery! How omnipotent his controul!"

Louis felt the cold damps of suspicion drop upon his heart.--He turned pale; he gasped for breath. A thousand circumstances which might corroborate his uncle's suggestion rushed upon his recollection. Though Wharton ridiculed the advances of these women, he did not repel them! Though he scorned the sensualist's pursuit, he boasted of seeming to share it, that he might turn him to his purpose. And when Louis retreated in his sight from the temptations he feared, did not the Duke rather laugh him into daring their strength, than encourage his flying from their influence?--Louis had never before doubted human being; much less suspected perfidy in the man who solicited his confidence, and whose irresistible persuasions had charmed him of more than half his heart. The Pastor grasped the cold hand of his nephew.

"Louis, can you be thus disturbed, by nothing more than my representation of what might have been?" "My most revered, my best friend!" cried he, straining the old man's hand to his breast; "There are some views of human nature that strike an honest heart with horror. But I cannot suspect Duke Wharton of such murderous treachery, when he had that very heart in his hand. Oh, my uncle, wrest from me the thought! It seems to cover the character of man with one universal blot."

Mr. Athelstone allowed the violence of his nephew's feelings to exhaust itself, before he made a reply. He saw something had passed between Louis and the Duke, which the former still kept secret; and confident in his integrity, he determined not to press a disclosure he appeared so averse to offering voluntarily.

"I perceive, Louis," said he, "that you do think it is possible you might have been placed in the predicament I have supposed. I also perceive this subtle nobleman has got you so far into his power as to have obtained your confidence, and a pledge from you of secrecy. I do not require you to betray it; but I warn you again! You have put _your heart into the hand of a man_ who is practised in deceiving; and who has no value for your deposit, but as it suits his purpose to make you _his toy or his tool_. These are his words, as you repeated them to me; and let them be his judge."

Louis was shocked to find this accusation lodge, and not rebound from his heart. He acknowledged that the Duke did engage him in a conversation he would rather have avoided; but no pledge of secrecy had been demanded; yet it was implied, and he trusted his uncle would think the word of honour he then gave ought to be respected.

"Your uncle, my child, will never induce you to violate that fidelity of word, which he has ever taught you to regard as one of the most sacred bonds of society. But, without committing yourself by any answer to what I may say, you must allow me to speak to the subject on which I believe your honour has been given?"

"Speak freely, Sir, and I shall be grateful, but on your own terms, I make no answer."

He prepared to listen, looking down, that Mr. Athelstone might not read by the consciousness of his eyes, how true or false was his guess.

The good Pastor had no difficulty in fixing his suspicions on some confidential communication respecting the expatriated royal family. Duke Wharton was the near relation of the unfortunate Lord Derwentwater, who died on the scaffold, in the cause of James Stuart; and from that hour his young kinsman had declared so loud an indignation of the severity of the sentence, that his guardians could hold him in no bounds. And ever since, it was more than suspected that his influence was secretly used to maintain the interests which the expelled Prince still preserved in some parts of the kingdom. Mr. Athelstone was aware that hopes were now reviving, which it was supposed had been finally crushed six years ago on the field of Glenshiel. But a patriot king was still only a vision. There were features in the personal character of George the First which rendered him unpopular with a high-spirited and intelligent nobility. He was haughty, reserved, and severe. All sincere members of the reformed church, and friends of national liberty, amongst the middle classes of the people, had the good sense to compromise the defects of the individual, for the general benefit of possessing a protestant king, and a limited monarchy. A large proportion of the nobility also, were of this opinion; while others merely followed the stream of power; and the rest rather endured than rejoiced in the changed succession. Though the principle of the nation at large was thus firm to its own measure of faith and of loyalty, yet parties ran high in the English metropolis; and the court at St. Germain's, mistaking the rage of faction for public discontent, conceived new hopes of being recalled to the seat of its ancient glory. Elated with these expectations, the widowed queen of James the Second, in one part of the continent, and the Prince her son in another, drew around them all whom personal devotion, fancied interest, or a spirit of adventure, could animate to try again the often-disputed cause. The policy of Europe contributed to keep alive these pretensions; for whenever any new circumstance of national jealousy excited a country to disturb the peace of England, the rival Power had only to exchange ambassadors with St. Germain's, and make the restoration of its family a pretext for hostilities. Such had been the case in 1715, and also in 1719, when Spain assisted the Chevalier Saint George in his descent on Scotland. But with new ministers came new systems; and it was now whispered that Philip the Fifth was veering round to the side of the house of Hanover.

Mr. Athelstone hastily ran over these preliminaries to the inference he meant to draw; observing the fluctuating complexion of his nephew; and believing that in guessing the subject of the Duke's discourse, he had also discovered its motive. In his morning's conversation with the Marquis, that nobleman had told him an anecdote of the Duke which bore on his present surmises. During the preceding Christmas, the Spanish ambassador at Paris had met Wharton at a diplomatic dinner given by the French minister. Flushed with wine, half-jest, half-earnest, the gay Duke interrupted a discussion on the desperation of the Stuart cause, by declaring himself its champion. "My master's interest," cried he, "has hitherto been mismanaged. Perth and two or three other old women, like Macbeth's witches, have met together under the portal of St. Germain's, to prophesy of crowns, and produce halters. But they are now laid in the red sea! And man and determination are called upon to act. I bring both in my own person, and am ready to run a tilt with George of Hanover, and Robert Walpole to boot, whenever your good kings will open the field to me!"

"My dear Louis," continued the Pastor, "here, I doubt not, this zealous champion has come to collect for his lists; and you would be a second to gain him a triumph."

Louis surprised, turned his eyes on his uncle.

"Yes, you,--as a promise of your father."

"My father Sir! how could I engage for my father? and how could my father serve the cause you suspect the Duke has at heart?"

"Your father was the energy of Holland; and, I understand, is the wisdom of Spain. We knew that he was respected by the Spanish nation, and possessed the confidence of its monarch. But I was not aware of the extent of his power in that country, till I learnt it yesterday from the Marquis Santa Cruz. He tells me, that since the removal of Cardinal Alberoni from the place of prime minister, others may have the title, but your father dictates the measures. Indeed, added the Marquis, in any state he must ever have proved himself a great man; but Spain is his country; and restored to that, he flourishes like a tree in its native soil."

Louis knew that his family was originally Spanish. That his grandfather, Don Juan de Montemar, Duke of Ripperda, had removed from Spain in a pique against his sovereign. On further provocation he joined an insurrection in the Netherlands. The King retaliated, by confiscating his patrimonial estates in Andalusia, and degrading him from the rank of Grandee. Separated for ever from his native country, and loathing its very remembrance, he laid aside his Spanish title with disdain, and became a citizen of Groningen. On purchasing large estates in that province, the States-General gave him the rank of Baron; and soon after he married the only daughter of the late Prince Casimir, of Nassau. Her brave father had been killed in battle against the Spaniards; and the proud and resentful Ripperda, therefore, gave his hand to her with particular complacency. A son was the fruit of this marriage, who its happy mother named after her uncle and cousin, both so famous for their patriotic virtues; one, the then existing Stadtholder of the Netherlands; the other, winning by his valiant deeds the future distinction of being King of England. Never having any more children, the illustrious parents lavished every species of care upon this; and with a pride, which all the adopted republicanism of the father could not subdue, they saw him grow up with the proofs of his noble ancestry manifested in his spirit; courteous, brave, and ambitious. While he was yet a youth, he fought for Holland and for England, under the standard of his kinsman the great King William; and particularly distinguished his name at the celebrated siege of Namur. But the elder Ripperda did not long enjoy his son's fame. He died before the young hero returned to Groningen. His mother, who inherited the intellectual ambition of her princely house, exerted all her persuasions to turn the passion of her son from military glory to political honours. She effected her purpose; for nature seconded her views. The young Baron was born to be a statesman. There was an extraordinary intuitive intelligence in his mind, that seemed to require no more than to turn towards a subject, to comprehend it; all its bearings became present to him; and the energy of action followed the moment in which its utility was perceived. He early became the confident of statesmen; and as every element takes its level, soon found his proper sphere, as their adviser; the suggester, and impelling agent of their boldest plans. In fact, he was the spirit of their council, without appearing in its body; for he professed the religion of his father, which was Roman Catholic. His mother's church was that of her country. And the bigotry of her deceased husband not having been imbibed by her son, she found no difficulty in converting him to the simplicity of the Hollanders' faith. The only obstacle being thus removed, the next assembly of the States-General saw him seated amongst them as representative of the province of Groningen. His civic honours were quickly succeeded by his mother's death. Two years after that event, he married the beautiful daughter of Sir Hedworth Athelstone. But his lot was not to be found in a domestic circle. His young baroness died in the first year of his nuptials; and he relinquished his only child to the prayers of its maternal grandfather.