Part 11

The Queen's colour heightened during this speech. She rose proudly from her chair: "My Lords," said she, "what the Duke of Wharton has intimated shall have its weight with me. Meanwhile, I will reconsider the sentence you are to propose to the King, and give you my directions accordingly."

On my father arriving at the palace, (which was immediately after the breaking up of the consultation,) the Queen's secretary told him all that had passed. He was justly irritated at the false representation Duke Wharton had so malignantly made, of the motives of your conduct; and accidentally meeting him in his return through the gallery, he accosted him without ceremony, and with a severe reproof. Wharton listened to him with a provoking kind of respect; and when my father, with some heat, had finished his reproaches, the Duke coolly replied: "I am sorry your Lordship and I should differ on any subject; but you are too good a Catholic to wish any man to speak against his conscience!"

"I am too much a man of honour, Duke Wharton, to sanction any man in speaking otherwise than what is fact. I know the Marquis de Montemar; and you have no authority for what you said this morning to the Queen."

"Did the Marquis Santa Cruz wear a cowl instead of a helmet," answered the Duke, "I might possibly make him master of my cabala; but, as it is, we may part friends, since I am determined not to confess myself his enemy."

"My father turned indignantly from the gay bow of the Duke, and so they separated.

"These are bad symptoms for you, dearest Louis," continued the letter of Ferdinand; "but if any thing can be done to protect your paternal rights in this country, my father will do it. And, as to my mother, I believe she thinks of you more than she does of me; but that is because you deserve it better. Write to me from Gibraltar; and say that you will gladly welcome to England your friend,

FERDINAND D'OSORIO."

Louis received these packets from Lorenzo, at the house of a Spanish merchant residing in the town of Gibraltar. The Spaniard was known to Santa Cruz, and recommended by him, as a person well adapted to assist in the accomplishment of Louis's views in visiting the rock. He found the house in a retired part of the town, and preferred such a residence before the military bustle of the British quarters.

Having read the letters of his Spanish friends, he put them into a bosom that had long been accustomed so to hide the sorrows of his heart; and, having seen, the Count de Patinos respectfully attended to by Lorenzo, and the other captives comfortably disposed under the care of Martini, he quitted the merchant's house, to seek his first conference with the British Governor.

He had no occasion for other introduction to General ****, than the announcement of his name. The gazettes of Ceuta had been daily in the hands of the British garrison; and the tremendous bombardment of the Spanish fortress having been seen from the heights of Calpe, its gallant defence was read with avidity by the generous spectators. The Marquis de Montemar filled every line in the two last reports; and General **** rose to receive him, with that respect in his deportment, which is the brightest meed that veteran glory can bestow on youthful fame.

While Louis sat with the English Commander, in spite of his late inattention to objects of trifling import, the furniture and style of the apartment struck him as what he had not seen since he left England;--and, he was conscious to an emotion, as if he had drawn at once near to his home; and even felt the atmosphere of this room, different from that in the Spanish quarter of the rock.

It was not necessary, in his conversation with the Governor, to pain himself by any elaborate explanation of his father's rupture with the Spanish Court, and his fatal engagement with that of Morocco. The pillars of Hercules were too near to each other, for what was transacted under the shadow of the one, to be unknown to the inhabitants at the foot of the other. The Governor of Gibraltar admired the greatness of the Duke de Ripperda, when his virtues guided the Spanish helm; and his own virtues did not prevent him pitying the fallen statesman, when his ill-directed resentment made him dictator to a horde of barbarians.

Louis pleaded to himself the partial phrenzy of his father's mind, as some extenuation of his conduct. He learnt from Martini, that the Duke's passions had always been strong; but, until he received the wound on his head in the porch of the Jesuits at Vienna, they were always under his controul. From that perilous hour, his temper became more irritable; and in every way he shewed himself more vulnerable to the attack of circumstances. These circumstances at last overwhelmed him; and, disappointed, insulted, and betrayed, madness contended with reason in his brain. With just enough of the one, to shew him the enormity of his retaliation, and of the other to precipitate him into its commission, he became the desperate victim of revenge; a renegade, and a slave.

Nought of this passed the lips of Louis to the English general; but he understood it all, from the report of certain Jews from the coast of Barbary; and, in conversing with the son of the unhappy Duke, he delicately implied, that he knew his illustrious father had been led to his last fatal step, by the false lights of a distempered mind.

"In his latter hours," replied Louis, "that, indeed fatal disorder was taken away. He was restored to the upright principle of his former character; and his penitence for the effect of his dereliction, was as deep, as his injuries were indelible. But, in that hour of terrible recollections, he forgave all, as he hoped to be forgiven. And I saw him die in the faith of the church."

Louis spoke this with a steady voice; and a certain dignity elevating the sadness of his countenance, which convinced his auditor, that the son of Ripperda felt the honour of his name returned to him, in the restoration of his father to the religion and pardon of his God.

General **** entered with zeal into the plans which the deceased Duke had laid down, for the redemption of several hundred Christian slaves in the interior of the Barbary states. And as the scheme must occupy much time, and numerous agents, to bring it to effect; Ripperda had fixed upon Martini, as the negociating person, on the Spanish side of the lines of San Roque. Certain deposits of treasure for ransoms, were to be left, both in his hands, and in those of the Governor of the English fortress, who, from the political relations between it and the Barbary coast, could be the most efficient agent in the great design.

General **** having heard of the probable sequestration of all the Ripperda property in Spain, ventured to hint to the despoiled heir, that there might be an excess of generosity, in at once relinquishing so vast a sum as that which the munificence of the Duke had allotted to the cause of charity.

"Had he foreseen the injustice of the Spanish government to his son," continued the veteran, "I doubt not he would have bequeathed his benevolence in a more prudent measure! It therefore becomes you, Marquis, to make the restrictions common equity suggests."

"No;" replied Louis, "my father's wealth was his own. I have no right, had I the wish, to lay an appropriating hand on a single ingot. I am rich, in the task of obeying his commands. And for myself, the world does not want ways for a man, of few personal wants, to gain an honourable subsistence."

A few days put every thing in a train for the prosecution of Ripperda's charitable bequest. The treasure was lodged in the government-house; and a list of all the yet unredeemed Christian slaves in Barbary, put into the general's hands. The enfranchised captives, which Louis had brought with him, were ready at the British lines, on the land-side of the fortress, to pass into Spain. On taking leave of their benefactor; he who had so religiously, and with largesses of money besides, obeyed every tittle of the deceased Duke's will in their behalf; they fell on their knees before him, and implored for blessings on his life.

"The past has been a vale of sorrows!" sighed he to himself, as he cheerfully bid them adieu, and gave them blessing for blessing.

Martini was to lead these happy captives to their native land; and to take up his own residence at the castle of de Montemar, until the execution of the expected decree against its lord should drive him out into some humbler abode; where he would still exercise the benevolent agency, which alone could have persuaded him to separate himself from the immediate presence of the beloved son of his ever-honoured master.

He wept at parting with Louis, and his brother Lorenzo.

"I am but your servant, my Lord!" said he, "but these are times when the heart knows no distinctions, but those of attachment. Your noble father is gone; and you may cut me piece-meal, before I feel his son otherwise, than _bone of my bone_, and yet my honoured Lord."

Louis pressed the faithful creature to his heart; and could he have wept, his tears would have mingled with those of Martini, which bathed his cheek.

The Count de Patinos was to accompany the returning column. He too was to take leave of his generous protector. It was beneath his rank to bow the knee; it was adverse to his nature, to call a benediction on his head: but he embraced Louis with the ceremonial of his country, while the extension of his arms was as cold and repelling, as if the mutual touch transformed benefits to injuries.

As the Count turned away, "Thus," said Louis to himself, "does Spain and all its interests depart from me!"

Some other thoughts, in which Spain had a share, traversed his mind, as he slowly took his way through the devious path-ways in the rock, towards the dwelling of his Spanish host. As he entered it, he felt it was possible to regret never respiring the atmosphere of Spain again.

The Governor had informed him, that a British frigate would sail for Portsmouth next day. A passage was eagerly offered to him by the captain; and after dining with his new friends in the garrison, and bidding them farewell, on the evening previous to the night he was to embark, he ascended the summit of the mountain to look round, and to breathe his last adieu to lands he should never see again.

He was alone, and so distant from the garrison, not a sound came to his ear, as he pensively mounted steep after steep, till he reached the old signal-house; at this time, a lone deserted tower on the highest point of the rock. All was calm within him, in this moment of final separation from all that had once possessed his whole heart, and been the utmost bounds of his far-stretching ambition.

The extended and magnificent scenery, which derived a kind of visionary beauty from the pure and luminous atmosphere in which it was displayed, seemed to refine the faculties by which it was contemplated, and to dilate his soul with a tranquil and devotional delight.

"Is it," thought he, "that as man draws near the region of celestial spirits, he begins to partake their ethereal nature?"

Still some earthly remembrances clung to the spot that horizon bounded. He looked from side to side. The vast Atlantic, rolling into the Straits, and ploughed by many a proud frigate, did not hold his attention long. He turned towards the east, where the Mediterranean took its milder course, flowing far away, between the hostile shores of Spain and Africa; till lost in distant Italy, and farther Greece. The Moorish coast was boldly distinguished by prominent headlands and towering cliffs. They seemed to stretch to an infinite extent. And, on the opposite shore, and to the same unlimited horizon, rose the mountainous regions of Spain, the snow-clad Grenadines, and the empurpled heights of Antequera. The plains were diversified with towns and castles; and, immediately beneath him, lay the lines of San Roque. He gazed on that Spain he was to leave for ever; that Spain, which held the Marquis Santa Cruz; and her, whose voice he was to hear no more. But the sounds were still echoing in his heart; in his troubled dreams, or waking musings, he often heard the same. "I cannot dissuade the Marquis de Montemar from that, for which I honour him!" He often heard her say; "Look up, and cherish life; for heaven knows how to bless, when all the world has failed!" His melancholy eyes ranged over the abundant vales of Andalusia. That very province of Spain, on which he was now looking down for the last time, was his own inheritance! But that was little. He turned to the red line of light which now tracked the darkening coast of Africa. There stood the rugged cliffs of Abyla, frowning in mist over the towers he had so lately defended with his blood. Beyond, lay a dearer spot! The green sod that covered his father's grave.--There, the dews of night fell; and the wailing of the blast in the lonely turrets around, were all which hereafter would supply the place of a son's tears and groans!

"Oh, my father!" cried he, "Thou sleepest alone! Far from thy wife and child! Far from the country of thy birth, or thy adoption--betrayed, forgotten, stigmatized!"

While this bitter remembrance envenomed the before resigned state of his mind, his upward eye was struck with the appearance of an eagle, as if emerging from the ether; so high was its elevation, as it floated over him, on vigorous and steady wing. It moved towards the coast of Barbary. It seemed to hover over the heights of Tetuan:--it descended for a while; remained stationary in mid air; and then, soaring aloft like a dart of light, was lost in the heavens.

Louis saw no more. That bird was the crest of his family. Imagination and grief were busy in his heart. He burst into tears, and slowly descended the mountain.

CHAP. XVII.

A succession of various weather, at last brought the frigate, which contained Louis de Montemar, and his faithful Lorenzo, in sight of the British coast. He was returning to it, after an absence of little more than two years, "a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief!" In the morning of his youth, he bore in his bosom the experience of age. But it was not with a bent spirit, nor a wearied courage.

"I am bruised," said he to himself; "but not broken. I have yet, bonds of duty to the world, and I will not shrink from my task."

But he felt this inward assurance spring and grow, exactly in proportion as he drew nearer to the coast where he had imbibed the first aliments of all that was greatly emulous in his mind; where his heart had first known the glows of dear domestic tenderness; where, in short, he first knew a home.

"Since I left it," cried he, "I have never found another!" and, as he stood on the deck of the vessel, he thought the glittering summits of the cliff's he descried at a distance, shone on him like the welcoming smiles of a mother.

He landed. Portsmouth did not detain him long; nor any town, nor any track he passed over; while the rapid vehicle in which he threw himself, conveyed him with all the eagerness of his wishes towards Northumberland.

It was the season of the year when the family of Lindisfarne were usually removed to Morewick-hall. Though the summer was far advanced, in the southern climate he had left; in the colder latitudes of England he found snow on the mountains, and ice in the vallies. The leafless woods shook their glittering branches in the keen blast, and the heavy clouds, teeming with a hail-storm, burst, and darkened the road.

Louis would not think of the orange groves, and gales laden with balm and fragrance, he had so lately left behind; but he did not check the remembrance, because he regretted the change.

There were memories attached to it, which he wished not to cling too closely to his heart, when he should first press to his returning bosom, the venerable form of him, who had blessed him when he last crossed the top of that hill!--

As soon as the well-known pinnacles of Morewick-hall, appeared over the woods at the bottom of the valley, he called to the postilion to proceed slower. He was alone. For he could not approach that house, with any witness of his emotion. But the man had no sooner obeyed his directions, and was winding down the hill with a leisurely pace, than Louis felt the agitation of his mind encreased by the slowness that permitted recollection to crowd his thoughts with images. He changed his commands, and the driver set off on the spur towards the gates of Morewick.

Many an apprehension was in his bosom. Many a wringing reflection. How had he left that place? How did he return? And what would be the pangs of meeting, after the wreck of so many hopes!--

He was taking counsel of his manhood, to sustain with firmness the questions which must summon the shadows, whose _torturing substance_ he had endured without a receding nerve;--when his carriage entered the gates of Morewick Park. Lost in self-recollection, it was only by the jerk of the horses in stopping before the mansion, that Louis knew he was arrived. The carriage door was opened. In that land of hospitality, the house-door also stood at large. He sprang from his vehicle into the hall. Servants were entering it from different avenues; but he passed through them all, and knew nothing of what he saw or did, till he found himself at the feet of his revered uncle.

He was clasped in the arms of his aunt; and Alice bathed his hand with her happy tears.

It was many minutes before a word was spoken. But every heart knew each other's language, and the folded hands of Mr. Athelstone, as he stood over his nephew, told to all who looked on him, that his grateful soul was then at the feet of his God.

The embrace with which Louis strained his aunt to his bosom, recalled her passing senses to recollection; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she wept there, almost to suffocation. While the Pastor, with eyes no less the witnesses of a joy that has not words, assisted his nephew to bear her to the settee, Louis put the venerable hand to his lips. The last time he so pressed it, he was possessed of a father whom he loved and honoured!--That father was now no more; and the pride with which he then dwelt on his name, was extinguished for ever! He would not allow the swelling sluices of his heart to give way, or even to intimate what was labouring there, by pressing that hand to his bosom!

"Dearest Louis!" cried Alice, who was the first to speak;--for her mother sat on the sofa with her arms still on the neck of her nephew, and gazing with anguish on his face:--"Dearest Louis!" cried her daughter, in a voice as plaintive as her mother's looks; "Oh, how you are changed!"

"Not in heart, Alice!" said he, turning his eyes tenderly upon her.

"Ah! that voice, is still his own!" cried Mrs. Coningsby, throwing herself upon his bosom, and weeping afresh. "Yes, Catherine;" said the Pastor, regarding the agitated groupe, with all the tenderness of his sainted spirit. "A veil has fallen over the lustre of that beauty you used to prize so much! but it is a veil only; the light of heaven is still behind it!"

It was not until this day of emotion was quite over; and that both Mrs. Coningsby and Alice had given their hands to the kneeling obeisance of Lorenzo, with rather the welcome of kindred than of superiors; and the calming solitude of night had schooled every heart to the necessity of, at least, assuming tranquillity, that the little circle at Morewick could fully feel the happiness of re-union.

Before Louis quitted his chamber next morning, the usual domestic groupe were assembled in the breakfast room. Mr. Athelstone, with pious gratitude, remarked to Mrs. Coningsby on the trying circumstances of his nephew's yet early life; and exulted in the integrity with which he had passed so fiery an ordeal.

"Yes," returned she, "many begin their contest when he has finished his. But he has not escaped the marks!" and she shuddered while she wiped the starting tear from her eye.

"Man's contest," rejoined the Pastor, "is not finished till he grounds his arms in the grave. That our nephew has so soon commenced his combat; that he has so bravely resisted what has overcome more veteran spirits; is a sign that much remains for him to do. The soldiers of our heavenly captain, are not taught in vain: they must struggle and conquer until the end; and then they will receive their rest and their reward!"

"Hitherto," replied Mrs. Coningsby, with almost audible sobs, "his discipline has been severe indeed! but altered as he is, never did I behold affliction so dignified. His eyes, in their brightest happiness, never looked so lovely as last night, in the wordless anguish of his soul."

"And yet, Catherine, you lament his bloom!"

"No, Mr. Athelstone, it is the cause of its loss, that fills me with regret."

"But I do;" cried Alice, "I lament the loss of all that was my former Louis! his light, ethereal step,--his look of radiance,--and his voice of such soul-entrancing gladness!--But now, his movements are slow; his cheek is wan and faded; and his voice is so full of pity, I could weep whenever he speaks."

"Give him time, my child," returned the Pastor; "the hand of recent sorrow is yet heavy on him. He must yield his tribute to Nature. Suffer him now, and Nature will reward us with an ample restoration of all his delighting powers."

Louis's entrance checked the reply of Alice. And now he was welcomed to the dear domestic breakfast table, with smiles, instead of the tears which on the foregoing night, lingered in every eye until the hour of retirement.

During the meal Mr. Athelstone made the conversation cheerful, by turning it on general subjects, and particularly enlarging on Sir Anthony's improved manner of life. He had thrown aside all his old, reprehensible habits, and preferring the occasional society of his niece Cornelia, (who, in consequence of the gout flying about him, was now with him at Cheltenham,) his days passed in the equable current of domestic comfort and social respectability.

While the Pastor pursued this discourse, and Louis listened to him with evident pleasure, Alice contemplated her cousin's face and figure; and at last wondered within herself, how she could have thought him so greatly altered. If any change had taken place in his figure, it unquestionably was to its advantage. A certain martial dignity was added to its former pliant grace. It was now a form where _every god had seemed to have set his seal_ to shape the perfect man;--before, it was that of a beautiful youth,--the dawn of this checquered, but resplendent day!

If this were the case, it must then be his black garments, which had at first struck her with some melancholy idea of a change in his person as well as face! she scanned that face with equal scrutiny. To her poetic fancy, his still matchless smile played under the soft moon-light of his now pensive eyes, like the shadowed, yet scintillating wave of her native stream.

At the moment this romantic image crossed her mind, she descried a spot of a deeper hue than the rest, and of the form and tint of a faded leaf, upon his cheek.

"Dear Louis!" said she, pressing affectionately to his side, and putting her finger on the place; "what mark is that?--It was not there when you left us?"

All her cousin's wonted bloom suffused that pale cheek, and obliterated the mark, as she uttered the question. It was the remains of the wound he had received there, in defending the life of Don Ferdinand.

"Do not enquire of all things, sweet Alice!" returned he, as he pressed her hand to his lips.

But he said it with an accent and a look so fraught with tenderness, and a something implied besides, that Ferdinand immediately occurred to her mind, though she knew not why, and casting down her eyes with a blush; she again thought within herself:--

"How could I think that Louis was altered?"