“The God of Heaven pardon thee!” said the abbess. “You were once my delight and pride. I never could have suspected ill of you.” “I too was once unsuspicious,” said St. Clare. “My heart believed in nothing but innocence. I know the world better now. Were it their interest, would they thus deride me? When the mistress of Glenarvon, did they thus neglect, and turn from me? I was not profligate, abandoned, hardened, then! I was lovely, irresistible! My crime was excused. My open defiance was accounted the mere folly and wantonness of a child. I have a high spirit yet, which they shall not break. I am deserted, it is true; but my mind is a world in itself, which I have peopled with my own creatures. Take only from me a father’s curse, and to the last I will smile, even though my heart is breaking.”
“And are you unhappy,” said the abbess, kindly. “Can you ask it, Madam? Amidst the scorn and hatred of hundreds, do I not appear the gayest of all? Who rides so fast over the down? Who dances more lightly at the ball? And if I cannot sleep upon my bed, need the world be told of it? The virtuous suffer, do they not? And what is this dream of life if it must cease so soon? We know not what we are: let us doubt all things—all but the curse of a father, which lies heavy on me. Oh take it from me to-night! Give me your blessing; and the time is coming when I shall need your prayers.”
“Can such a mind find delight in vice?” said the abbess, mildly gazing upon the kneeling girl. “Why do you turn your eyes to Heaven, admiring its greatness, and trembling at its power, if you yet suffer your heart to yield to the delusions of wickedness?” “Will such a venial fault as love be accounted infamous in Heaven?” “Guilty love is the parent of every vice. Oh, what could mislead a mind like yours, my child?” “Madam, there are some born with a perversion of intellect, a depravity of feeling, nothing can cure. Can we straighten deformity, or change the rough features of ugliness into beauty?” “We may do much.” “Nothing, good lady, nothing; though man would boast that it is possible. Let the ignorant teach the wise; let the sinner venture to instruct the saint; we cannot alter nature. We may learn to dissemble; but the stamp is imprest with life, and with life alone it is erased.”
“God bless, forgive, and amend thee!” said the abbess. “The sun is set, the hour is late: thy words have moved, but do not convince me.” “Rise, daughter, kneel not to me: there is one above, to whom alone that posture is due.” As St. Clare rode from the convent, she placed a mark upon the wicket of the little garden, and raising her voice, “Let him be accursed,” she cried, “who takes from hence this badge of thy security: though rivers of blood shall gush around, not a hair of these holy and just saints shall be touched.”
CHAPTER XCV.
The preparations made this year by France, in conjunction with her allies, and the great events which took place in consequence of her enterprizes, belong solely to the province of the historian. It is sufficient to state, that the armament which had been fitted out on the part of the Batavian Republic, sailed at a later period of the same year, under the command of Admiral de Winter, with the intention of joining the French fleet at Brest, and proceeded from thence to Ireland, where the discontents and disaffection were daily increasing, and all seemed ripe for immediate insurrection.
Lord Glenarvon was at St. Alvin Priory, when he was summoned to take the command of his frigate, and join Sir George Buchanan and Admiral Duncan at the Texel. Not a moment’s time was to be lost: he had already exceeded the leave of absence he had obtained. The charms of a new mistress, the death of Calantha, the uncertain state of his affairs, and the jealous eye with which he regarded the measures taken by his uncle and cousin de Ruthven, had detained him till the last possible moment; but the command from Sir George was peremptory, and he was never tardy in obeying orders which led him from apathy and idleness to a life of glory.
Glenarvon prepared, therefore, to depart, as it seemed, without further delay, leaving a paper in the hands of one of his friends, commissioning him to announce at the next meeting at Inis Tara the change which had taken place in his opinions, and entire disapprobation of the lawless measures which had been recently adopted by the disaffected. He took his name from out the directory; and though he preserved a faithful silence respecting others, he acknowledged his own errors, and abjured the desperate cause in which he had once so zealously engaged.
The morning before he quitted Ireland, he sent for his cousin Charles de Ruthven, to whom he had already consigned the care of his castles and estates. “If I live to return,” he said gaily, “I shall mend my morals, grow marvellous virtuous, marry something better than myself, and live in all the innocent pleasures of connubial felicity. In which case, you will be what you are now, a keen expectant of what never can be yours. If I die, in the natural course of events, all this will fall to your share. Take it now then into consideration: sell, buy, make whatever is for your advantage; but as a draw-back upon the estate, gentle cousin, I bequeath also to your care two children—the one, my trusty Henchman, a love gift, as you well know, who must be liberally provided for—the other, mark me Charles!—a strange tale rests upon that other: keep him carefully: there are enemies who watch for his life: befriend him, and shelter him, and, if reduced to extremities, give these papers to the duke. They will unfold all that I know; and no danger can accrue to you from the disclosure. I had cause for silence.”
It was in the month of August, when Lord Glenarvon prepared to depart from Belfont. The morning was dark and misty. A grey circle along the horizon shewed the range of dark dreary mountains; and far above the clouds one bright pink streak marked the top of Inis Tara, already lighted by the sun, which had not risen sufficiently to cast its rays upon aught beside this lofty landmark. Horsemen, and carriages, were seen driving over the moors; but the silent loneliness of Castle Delaval continued undisturbed till a later hour.