Part 15

Routemberg's conspiracy against the Spanish minister, did not originate with Wharton; but it was modified by him; he mounted the guns, and planted the circular batteries; and he did it, to bring Ripperda to a point, where none could preserve him but the man who held the springs of every movement in his own hands. This man was Wharton's self. Twice, at critical moments, in Vienna and at Madrid, he offered his terms:--to unmask every machination against Ripperda; and to maintain him in his seat against all the world; if he would at last oppose the house of Brunswick in the empire and in England. Both overtures were rejected with disdain; and events took their course. Ripperda's was a fall, not a descent, and the ruin was terrible. The new ministers of Spain, who had bought their elevation by embracing Wharton's views, triumphed in every way over their disgraced predecessor. But the English politician was of another spirit. His enemy, once down, his care might be to prevent his rising to the same adverse station; but he told his coadjutors, he was not of the herd to strike his heel against the fallen lion.

It did not, at this juncture, accord with the interests of his two royal friends, James Stuart, and Maria of Bavaria, to make a full disclosure in favour of the overthrown Duke; but he made secret visits to the King's confessor, and to the Queen's, not to incense, as was supposed, but to propitiate each sovereign against the cabinet ministers' rancorous persecution of their fallen rival. He denied all the circumstances which had been alleged by these men, to prove that Ripperda had negociated with him against the existing orders of Philip. He positively asserted, there had never been any amicable private meeting between them. He explained the adventure in the Carinthian post-house, where he returned the dispatches to the Duke; also another rencounter in the mountains of Genoa where he accidentally rescued him from a band of assassins, to whom he had been betrayed by a man who was a Spaniard; "and therefore," said Wharton, "I will not name him."

It were not possible to describe the varied anguish of Louis de Montemar, during this discourse, and the new discoveries it made at every sentence. He did not utter it, for he was on the rack. But when he found that it was Wharton's arm which had saved his father amongst the maritime Alps; that it was to him, though unknown, Ripperda had bequeathed the _Gratitude_ of his son;--then Louis felt the iron enter his soul.

In short, Santa Cruz informed him, that Wharton proved to the King and Queen, that his enmity was against Ripperda's politics, not against himself; though he protested, there was not a man on earth who detested another with more determined hatred than the ex-minister detested him.

Things were in this state, when the Duke was summoned by the Chevalier St. George, to a conference at Rome, and the field being left open to Grimaldo and his colleagues, their violent proceedings ended in the flight of their proposed victim.

In this pause of the narrative, Louis wrung his hands, and bitterly exclaimed:

"What an extreme and false judge have I been of this unexampled friend! And just is my punishment, that I should lose him for ever, in the moment I know his invaluable worth!" "Be not unjust to yourself, my dear de Montemar," answered the Marquis, "Philip Wharton did not open to me only half his soul. When we pledged our faith to each other, on two sacred subjects, (one of which was your restitution to your rights; but which coalition to your advantage, was not to be revealed to you till it was successful:) he confessed to me, that he deserved your warmest resentment; for, the sin of his life, since he knew you, was an incessant attempt at rendering you in _all things_ like himself! De Montemar was bright and ambitious," said he, "too likely to outshine his master, unless I gave his towering soul a little of my own ballast. I tried him, where man is most vulnerable. Marquis! I was so very a wretch, that the clearer I saw my power over him, with a more devilish zeal I thrust him into the fire. In the garden of the Chateau de Phaffenberg was the scene of my last attempt! His resolution, not only to meet ruin himself, but to consign his idolized father to the same, rather than rescue either by a dereliction from virtue, was a sword, that cut asunder marrow and spirit! Since that hour, I have regarded that boy as a Mentor, worth all the bearded sages, from Socrates to the Cambray Bishop!"--

"So spoke the animated Duke," continued Santa Cruz; "and he has honoured his model! For, from that time, (although it was long before I shared his secret,) he has been your unsuspected and efficient friend. The re-enrolment of your father's name in the national archives; and, these parchments, containing your own restituted rights without condition or substraction, but the Dukedom of Ripperda, (which none but a Catholic can bear,) are undeniable witnesses of this fact."

"Marquis!" replied Louis, walking the room in insupportable agony of spirit; "you heap coals of fire upon my head! Oh, why must I remember, whose voice denounced him to this government; who proclaimed him a traitor to the House of Hanover!--His own rights in this country are wrested from him by that hand!--a price is set on his head,--and hidden like a thief, he lies, murdered by assassins, under the very roof which ought to have been rent with acclamations, when he sought it as a refuge!--Oh, my venerable friend, I cannot bear what is pressing on my brain!"

The Marquis saw that Louis was in no condition to listen with attention, much less with complacency, to any thing else he had to impart; and aware that his greatest proof of kindness would be to hasten his return to Morewick, to yield him some chance of seeing his friend alive; he declared that such was first in his thoughts; and he soon withdrew, to give corresponding directions to his family.

CHAP. XXII.

The morning's light saw the Marquis Santa Cruz step into the post-chariot that was to convey him to London. He had advised Louis not to distress the apprehensive mind of the Marchioness, by imparting to her, or to any of the travelling group, the afflicting scene at Morewick; besides, under the dangerous circumstances which enveloped Wharton's asylum there, the fewer who were privy to the secret, the better for all parties.

Immediately after a breakfast by sun-rise; when the Marquis had driven away, Louis led the Marchioness to her carriage. Ferdinand had already placed his sister within it, and Don Garcia de Lima, the family physician, with the female attendants of the ladies, took his station in de Montemar's travelling chaise. A cold Northumbrian morning, which, though at deep Midsummer, is sometimes saturated with fog, chilled the delicate frame of Marcella, and wrapping herself within her pelisse, she drew close into the corner of the coach.

The first start of the horses from the inn-gate, re-lit hope in the breast of Louis. And as they flew along the northern road, the pinions of his soul seemed to extend themselves; while with the animating glow of renewed confidence in Wharton, and the sanguine expectation of soon avowing it at his side, dilated his heart, he appeared to the eyes of his companions a new being. Marcella sighed as she contemplated that radiant, unobserving countenance; she saw it was happiness that shone there. Happiness in returning whence he came! for his eyes were directed forward with an eagerness which plainly declared that at that moment he thought not of any one in the carriage. She was unconscious that she sighed; and feeling the fresh air particularly bleak at that instant, even shuddered.

"You are cold, Lady Marcella!" said Louis, hearing the gentle shiver, and drawing up the window that was next her; "I fear our Northumbrian breezes are rough in their welcome!"

Marcella did not speak, but bowed her head.

This little incident recalled Louis's attention to those around him. They remained ignorant of what was in his thoughts; and the mournful comfort which the Marquis's communications had infused there, influenced him throughout the journey, to complete it with greater cheerfulness than he could have affected, had his mind been still weighed down with the conviction that he lamented an unworthy friend.

Over and over again he felt that a perfect reliance on the virtue of a beloved object, and his acceptance with the source of all-purity, is what takes the mortal sting from death; and though sorrow and anxiety were full in his heart, the shafts of despair and horror were extracted, and he thought himself equal to seeing his friend pass that bourne--where, he trusted, one day to follow him into the land of peace.

All this genial impetus of spirit succeeded very well, until the morning of the third day, when the travellers assembled in the breakfast-room of the inn where they had slept, and prepared to renew their journey. Marcella became so powerless of exertion, from the exhaustion consequent to the two preceding days rapid travelling, that she fainted in her way to the carriage, and was brought back in the arms of Ferdinand into the house. Her mother, (the physician's chaise having been some time driven on,) applied the usual restoratives; and when she was sufficiently recovered to comprehend what was said, the Marchioness tenderly assured her, she should not be hurried by proceeding that day; for the Marquis de Montemar was already gone out to order the carriage to be put up.

"At your request, Mamma?" slowly articulated Marcella.

"Yes, my child; and he complied immediately."

But how complied, the apprehensive eye of Marcella saw at once, when he re-entered the room. His countenance was pale and troubled. He approached her couch, but his eye roved over it.

"His wishes, his anxiety," said she to herself, "are in another place!--It is this incomparable Cornelia, this beloved cousin he is so eager to rejoin!--And my illness shall not detain him."

"I thank you, my dear mother!" cried she, "and you too, Marquis; but after this fit of weakness, I am well enough to go on." "Impossible!" cried the Marchioness, "the fatigue would destroy you."

"No;" replied Marcella, with a wan smile, "I can only be destroyed by finding myself an incumbrance, and I know Ferdinand thinks every moment an age till he arrive at Lindisfarne."

"Not while you are so ill, my kindest sister," replied he, "to-morrow will find you stronger, and six fleet horses will soon make up for the delay."

Louis turned towards the window. It might in the meeting of lovers, who had yet many happy years before them! but an hour, or a moment, might be sufficient to divide him for ever in this life, from the friend of his heart!--Marcella was ill; but she was not dying; and the determination to delay a whole day and a night, struck him with an agony he turned away to conceal. But Marcella caught the look; its whole expression entered her heart, and she took an instant resolution. Perhaps an emotion of resentment; the first she had ever known in herself, at least, the first she had ever acted upon, roused her to extraordinary powers; for she felt that no consideration of her possible peril, could awaken in this devoted, impatient lover, this ungrateful kindless de Montemar, one wish to linger a moment for her sake.

She pressed the arm of Ferdinand and whispered him.

He kissed that soft hand, and immediately withdrew. The Marchioness, suspecting that embassy was to recall the carriage, hastened up to Louis, and whispering him in her turn, begged him to prevail on Marcella, not out of indulgence to her brother's haste to reach Lindisfarne, to run herself into any risk. Before she could receive an answer, she glided out of the room in pursuit of her son, to stop his counter-orders, and to reprove his persisted selfishness.

Louis turned round to utter persuasions so foreign to his heart; but a severe look from Marcella checked him: yet he drew near. She again turned her eyes upon him; but there was an expression of distress in his face which disarmed her resentment; and being sensible to an undefinable sympathy, for whatever might be his motives for this, to her, unfeeling haste, she paused a moment to consider what she should say. A certain spirit of female dignity, that resisted, while it felt too powerfully his influence over her, and something of her usual habit of self-denial, impelled her to rally all her strength at once. And, alike contemning her body's feebleness, and that weakness of heart which had been its origin, she rose into a sitting position on the sofa; and, with every nerve braced, and a lofty, though compassionate air, she interrupted him as he began to speak.

"You are very kind, Marquis, to intend to obey my mother. But I am well, and shall proceed." Louis made an attempt to answer, but again she intercepted his first words; and, rising, rung the bell.

"Tell my mother," said she to the person who entered, "that I am ready to attend her to the carriage."

Louis looked on her with agitation. She observed him, and turned away her head, though with an air of unaffected serenity. Marcella was always serene after any struggle in her soul, when the conquest was gained.

The Marchioness, on receiving the message hurried into the room, and found her arguments for delay, answered in every point by the steady step and cheerful voice of her daughter. Ferdinand rejoiced in the change, without investigating the cause; but his mother looked towards Louis. She saw that it was some observation Marcella had made upon his conduct, which had produced this dangerous resolution. Experience convinced her, that so quick an alteration could not arise naturally; but she feared to oppose the effect, and durst not conjecture the cause.

In half an hour, they were re-seated in the carriage; and, by the orders of Ferdinand, who had received a whispered command from his sister, the drivers kept their horses to their fullest speed.

Little conversation passed in this day's journey. The spell of the two former ones was broken by the check in the morning. Louis wondered how he could have felt the _ignis fatuus_ hope which that check had extinguished; and, with proportioned despondency, he silently counted the hours which, he believed, had too surely cut him off from the last moments of his friend.

Marcella spoke little; for she durst not spare any waste of strength, from the exertion necessary to bear the casualties of the journey and to satisfy the frequent anxious inquiries of her mother. The eyes of Louis turned often on her, with an expression of solicitude that penetrated her heart. But the effect it produced, favoured the first deceit she had ever practised in her life. It drove the blood from that heart to her cheek; and she looked well when her soul was almost fainting within her.

It was ten o'clock, on the third night after their leaving Harwich, that the harassed party entered on Morpeth-moor, within a stage of Alnwick. The darkness, during this latter dozen miles, concealed from his companions the increasing discomposure of Louis. Every step drew him now so near to Morewick, he was ready to break from the carriage, and escape at once to the side of his dying friend. These twelve miles seemed a hundred to his impatience; and, when the drivers drew up before the door of the inn at Alnwick, he sprung out, as if it had been into his Uncle's house.

Marcella would fain have made a proposal to go on, even during the night; but nature was at last subdued; and she did not chuse to speak, when she knew, that the now hardly articulate powers of her voice, would too truly proclaim that she had already done too much.

The Marchioness having alighted, Louis drew near to assist Ferdinand in bearing out his sister; but Marcella merely bowed to him, and gently waved him away with her hand. Ferdinand threw his arms round her waist, and supported her failing steps into the house.

She was seated, pale and silent, in a chair by the fire-side, (for the night was cold and wet,) when Louis re-entered from giving orders respecting their apartments. Don Garcia's hand was upon her pulse.

"Donna Marcella had best retire immediately," said the physician. "You want rest, my child!" rejoined the Marchioness, putting her daughter's arm within her's.

"But I shall be ready to re-commence our journey to-morrow at day-break!" answered she, gently turning her head towards Louis. He bowed, with a full heart; and she left the room, leaning on her mother and the physician.

"Ferdinand," said Louis, "it is not necessary to disturb your sister so early as she intimates. I have business at Morewick,--it is only a few miles off,--I shall take a horse immediately; and return--" His lip became convulsed, and he could not proceed.

"Why, what is the matter at Morewick?" hastily inquired the young Spaniard; "Your family are at Lindisfarne!"

"All excepting Cornelia. But spare me further questions. When we meet again--" Again he interrupted himself, and then resumed in a more collected voice. "Rest is necessary, both for your mother and your sister, after the hard travelling of three such days; therefore, do not allow them to be disturbed till noon. I shall be with you long, very long, before that!"

"This is very strange, de Montemar!" said Ferdinand, with rather a tone of offended pride.

"For no other cause than the one that impels me," returned Louis, "would I leave their side. But when you know it, they and you will pardon and pity me."

"I ask no farther," said Ferdinand.

CHAP. XXIII.

The horse was fleet that carried Louis that dreary night, without star, or guide of any kind, over the lonely heaths which lay between Alnwick, and the little bye road which led through Warkworth to Morewick hall. But he knew every dell and dingle in that near neighbourhood; and without once going out of the direct track, soon found himself under the tall elms of the avenue, which now groaned in the blast around the old walls that sheltered his outlawed friend.

The porter, whom he had aroused at the lodge gate, followed to take his horse. But the bell at the great door was rung twice, before there was any appearance of its being answered. At last he heard voices, as if in consultation within the door. He rung a third time. They receded; and in a few minutes, a window was cautiously opened above his head. He could not see objects in the darkness, but he looked up, and impatiently demanded to be admitted.

"It is my master!" exclaimed Lorenzo; and quitting the window, hurried down stairs. The door was instantly opened by him; while immediately behind, a little within the hall, stood Mr. Athelstone.

At sight of him, Louis felt that the object of his haste must be no more. The shaft of death seemed struck into his own soul, as he desperately stepped forward, Mr. Athelstone clasped him in his arms.

"Then all is over!" burst from his sealed lips.

The Pastor drew him into a room, and Lorenzo followed with a lamp. Louis stood so calm, so unshaken, under the belief that his friend was dead, that the affectionate Italian gazed at him with surprise. But Mr. Athelstone read under that fixed endurance, a sensibility to the shock he had anticipated, which made the good man only too eager to unfold his better tidings.

"Does my presence, my dear nephew," said he, grasping his marbled hand; "only speak of death? Your friend's fever has left him; and his wound has begun to cicatrize."

Louis had armed himself to bear the stroke of consummate grief; but this turn of joy being beyond his hopes, was also beyond his manhood, and with his first step towards the parlour door, he staggered and fell. But an insensibility which is the effect of happiness, is as mists before the sun. A few minutes recalled him to perception; and the blissful tears which flowed from his eyes, bathed the hand of the venerable messenger of such good tidings.

"They are full of peace to me!" cried Louis. "They ought to be so," replied Mr. Athelstone. And then his nephew listened with a chastized anxiety, while the pious man explained his own presence at Morewick; and that his first meeting with Cornelia, confirmed his suspicions that Duke Wharton was this secret and cherished guest.

"I went to him," continued the Pastor, "to arouze his spirit from the deleterious slumber of this world, ere he should sink into that sleep which might prove eternal. At the first sight of me, he knew me; and by that knowledge was confirmed in his own belief, that he was under a roof which belonged to you. I confess to you, Louis, that though I had suspected it, I receded a step, when I found that it was the treacherous Wharton! When I knew that by granting him this protection, you laid yourself open to the condign punishment he might escape! He who had cozened you of your friendship; who had rifled you of your father's honours and life."

"My uncle!" exclaimed Louis interrupting him.

Mr. Athelstone put forth his hand with a sign, that he wished to be heard to the end; and then he benignly resumed:--

"But I went forward; and repeated those blessed words of the giver of all pardon:--

"Peace be to this house, and grace to all who dwell within it!

"When I drew near, the Duke stretched out his hand to me. "Mr. Athelstone, (said he) you do not visit the pillow of an impenitent. But where is my friend?" And he looked as if he thought you were behind me."

"And he looked in vain!" exclaimed Louis.

"But your spirit entered with your uncle!" replied the Pastor, laying his hand gently on the bent head of his nephew. "And a better spirit, my child: that which, as a minister of Christ, I derived from his holy word!" The succeeding two hours I passed by the bedside of the Duke of Wharton; and when I left him, that resplendent countenance of his was lit with a new light; the effulgence of heaven shone on it, and pressing my hand to his lips, he called me his father! his better father!--"For you have poured on me, (said he,) not the unction which gives temporal, but that which dispenses eternal life!"

Two similar hours were now passed between Louis and his uncle. During that time, all was communicated, which the former had learnt from Santa Cruz relative to Duke Wharton; and Mr. Athelstone unfolded to his nephew what the sealed papers in Cornelia's possession contained, and which, as a full avowal to his Christian confessor, the Duke had permitted the Pastor to read.

The night that followed Wharton's first conference with Mr. Athelstone, was succeeded by a comfortable sleep. And then it was, that on the ensuing morning, before he would venture to partake the holiest rite of the Christian church, with the Pastor, and his still hovering attendant, Cornelia, he entreated both, to break those seals, and read the contents. The packet that was addressed to de Montemar, did not contain the later circumstances which Santa Cruz had mentioned, for those particulars it referred Louis to that mutual friend. But the narrative generally and briefly explained his antecedent conduct with regard to Ripperda and his son; and ended with affirming the spotless fidelity of the former, both to the sovereigns of Austria and of Spain, until he passed from Europe into Barbary. His concluding farewell to Louis was short, but to the soul; yet, still the usual spirit of the writer prevailed, to cloathe his last words in the cheerful garb of verse--and he wrote:

"Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not the invidious foe, my fame pursue! The world I served, and only injured you!"

The second paper was to the secretary of state in London; declaring on the word of a dying man, that he only suspected, under whose protection he was.