Part 17

"Bless you! bless you, my child!" said he, laying his other hand upon her head. Louis's ready heart could not bear the sight of such a recognition, without a sensibility he feared to shew; and he vanished into the recesses of the hall. The Pastor raised her in his arms, and bearing her gently into a room, put her into those of Cornelia, who had just embraced the Marchioness.

Cornelia dared hardly venture to clasp the beautiful phantom to her bosom; but tenderly supported her tremulous frame to a sofa, where she gently seated her; and, pressing her soft hand in her's, gazed at her through her crowding tears. Was this fragile being, just hanging like a broken lilly, between the next breeze and the cold earth; was it she who had stood the fearful thunders of Ceuta? who had raised her head amidst the storm of war, to staunch the bleeding wounds of Louis de Montemar? to cherish his life at the expence of her own?

"It was!" cried the full heart of Cornelia to herself; and, in inarticulate, but ardent, language, she uttered her welcome.

The kindness of her voice drew the last sting of jealousy from the bosom of Marcella. She looked up, and thanked her with her eyes. There was something which passed from them, so powerful to the heart of Cornelia, that she gave way to the impulse of the impression; and, clasping the interesting Spaniard to her bosom, imprinted on her cheek a sister's kiss. That glance of Cornelia's noble countenance had struck Marcella with its general resemblance to that of her cousin; and she seemed to feel a pledge of something more than the welcome of a stranger, in this repeated embrace of Louis's most beloved relative.

The Marchioness was soon at home with the benign Pastor of Lindisfarne; and both she and Ferdinand were inquiring of him various particulars respecting their suit with Alice and Mrs. Coningsby, when Louis entered the room, after having introduced Don Garcia to the Duke.

Cornelia stretched out her hand to him. "Louis," said she, "you must make an interest for me, in the heart of Lady Marcella before she sees Alice, whom she will doubly love, for her own sake, and for Don Ferdinand's."

"Miss Coningsby," replied Marcella, "needs no interest but her own."

Louis approached with happy trepidation. What he said was as little to the purpose, as it was unheard by Marcella; and would have been marvelled at by Cornelia, had she not lately found a key in her own bosom, to explain language that had no visible meaning, and certain inconsistencies in demeanour, which betrayed all they meant to conceal.

CHAP. XXVI.

A sojourn of several days, in which other feelings besides those of personal weakness, influenced Lady Marcella to keep her apartment, sufficiently restored the whole party, to enable them to recommence their journey northward without fear of fatigue.

The skill of the Spanish physician, (who united surgery with his medical science,) was so successful with Duke Wharton, that he, too, was pronounced capable of partaking the removal. A litter conveyed him to a hired yacht, which lay at the mouth of the Coquet. This mode of travel was chosen as the easiest for an invalid in his case; and Louis, with Don Garcia and Lorenzo, were his attendants. The wind was fair for Lindisfarne; and the smooth sea, sparkled under a bright noon-day sun, when the little party embarked.

Mr. Athelstone and Ferdinand accompanied the ladies by land. They had set off early in the morning, to travel by easy stages, so as to reach the island before night.

Though no words of mutual confidence on the subjects nearest to the hearts of Cornelia and Marcella, had passed the lips of either, yet each read the secret thoughts of the other, and soothed, or cheered, with a reciprocal delicacy, as amiable as it was salutary. The little taper in the bosom of each, which each covered with the care of a vestal, to conceal, but not to extinguish, gave to its owner the power of discerning the locked mysteries of her friend.

Cornelia had been benumbed with horror, when she first discovered that the noble invalid she had cherished as some illustrious foreigner, worthy to be loved by her virtuous cousin,--was the Duke of Wharton!--Illustrious, indeed, in birth, and station, and talents; noble in figure, and beloved by her cousin!--But the man, of all others in the world, whom she had most abhorred for the abuse of those faculties, which had been so richly bestowed, and so shamefully abandoned to the worst of purposes. She stood aghast at herself when she found, that she now not only knew him to be that reprobated Wharton, but that when he should close his eyes in death, (which was then hourly expected,) the world would then be a desert to her.

It was in the moment when Mr. Athelstone flashed it at once upon her mind, _who_ was her guest, that as soon as the venerable man had left her to herself, she exclaimed in the agony of such a recognition,--

"Oh, Wharton! what the Prophet said of the Prince of Tyre, may too surely be said of thee: _Thou didst seal up the sum! Full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty! Thou wast prosperous in thy ways, from the day thou wast created, until iniquity was found in thee. And, now, they draw the sword against the beauty of thy wisdom. They defile thy brightness, and bring down thy glory to the ashes of the grave!_"

And who dare lament over such a grave? There is no sympathy for her who deplores a dishonoured name. There is no pity for her who weeps that the traitor is no more. She must glide by stealth to that lonely tomb. Her tears must fall in solitude on the trackless path; and, when lying on the neglected sod, there she may cry to Him alone, whose eye is over all, to pity and to pardon erring man!

"And so, Wharton!" exclaimed she, "I will lament and pray for thee!"

But, when her uncle informed her that this once offending and deprecated Wharton, regretted, with religious contrition, the transgressions of his youth, the severest pangs in her bosom were laid to rest; and she resumed what she believed her last duties about the dying patient, with a chastised tenderness, as soothing as it was pure from any earthly sentiment.

When her cares, and the will of Providence, recalled him from the brink of the grave to all the cheering promises of a speedy recovery; then she remembered what he had been, and armed herself against the external graces of his person, by recollecting the snares they had been to his virtues. The enchantments of his conversation, and the subduing influence of his mute gratitude, his eloquent looks, and often implied love, she shut from her heart, by recalling the various reported instances of his former delusions over man and woman. Cornelia believed that she had disgracefully deserted the best principle of her sex, in having admitted any sentiment more than compassion, for a stranger under the circumstances in which she found the Duke; and, when known, to continue to prefer him who had once been the world's idolater; she deemed so unworthy of herself, of all her declared opinions, that, stern in her self-controul, she turned from all his ardours with a coldness not to be subdued, and a resolution not to be shaken. In the dignity of unsullied virtue, Cornelia often strengthened herself by inwardly repeating, "Wharton, thy former sins must be thy temporary punishment; and my present weakness, the lasting scourge of mine!"

Marcella's meditations were less painful than Cornelia's; for the object of her thoughts was spotless as her own purity. There was no torture in her retrospections, excepting the memory of her last interview with Louis in the inn; but, as she now intended to obliterate its impressions on him, by an unchanging distance in her manner; she flattered herself that he would doubt the evidence of her former confusion; and that, hereafter, they might resume the character to each other, of mere mutual benevolence. She believed this, and she was tranquil; but she deceived herself on the grounds of this serenity. Hope was the spirit of peace, which had taken its hidden station in her heart; and health dawned, and spread upon her cheek, as the inward principle slowly, but surely gained power.

The reception of the party at Lindisfarne, was that of the re-union of dear and long acquainted friends. Mrs. Coningsby and the Marchioness, met with the frank cordiality of persons who already held that connection, which the marriage of their children would confirm. Alice was bathed in tears, when her future second mother folded her to her breast, and put her hand into the rapturous grasp of Ferdinand. Marcella was greeted with equal kindness; and Mrs. Coningsby herself, drew the old abbot's ebony couch into the circle, for the accommodation of her gentle guest. Peter, the grey headed butler, placed its cushions with assiduous care; and as she thanked him in the English language, but in the Spanish custom stretched out her hand to him; he kissed it respectfully, and prayed God to bless her!

Tea was soon prepared in that room, where Ferdinand had first beheld the lovely sisters; and compared their unsophisticated beauties, with those of more worldly charms. He was then a despairing wretch; he was now a happy lover! The same moon seemed shedding her silver light through the feathery shrubs at the window. The evening was chill, with all its brightness; and a fire blazed as before, under the Gothic mantle piece. The cat and the dog were also there; and the venerable Pastor completed the picture of delighted memory:--He sat by the side of the glowing hearth, smiling in conscious piety; as with one hand leaning on the couch of Marcella, he addressed her with all the tenderness of a parent. The Marchioness conversed animatedly with Mrs. Coningsby. His own Alice, was at that moment dispensing the fragrant tea, in the very china from which he had drank it three years ago! Cornelia was by her side; enjoying with a fond sister's delight, the perfect happiness of this evening's re-union.

When the tea equipage was withdrawn, and they all drew into little groups, the artless Alice exclaimed, "oh, how I wish Louis were here!"

"I wish so too," rejoined Ferdinand, in the same affectionate tone; and glancing at his sister, who had heard the tender apostrophe, though spoken in a half whisper; and her kindling cheek bore witness that she shared the sentiment.

Cornelia sighed; for she thought, "who is there, that would wish for Wharton?"

She was near Marcella; and Marcella understanding whose image was in that invisible sign, almost unconsciously pressed the hand of her friend, and softly whispered, "and the Duke too!" Cornelia's blush was now more vivid than Marcella's; and it was accompanied by a glow of gratitude to her, which shed a distant gleam on him, she before shrunk at remembering. His idea then was not so obscured to the eye of virtue, but that Marcella, the all pure and saintly Marcella, could think of him at that moment, with the approbation of a wish!

The embrace with which the two friends parted at night, told much of this without the agency of words.

That night, when all else in the family were gone to rest, Mr. Athelstone imparted to Mrs. Coningsby, the whole history of Wharton; from the commencement of his friendship with Louis, to the time of his being found by him, wounded and dying in the herdsman's hut.

When she listened to the explanation of his most suspicious, and even hostile proceedings against her nephew; when she was told the dangers he had exposed himself to, to shield that nephew; and considered his generous forbearance with regard to the Duke his father; when she comprehended all his late exertions for the reputation of the one, and the rights of the other:--she was in an ecstacy of amazement; and with all the usual ardour of her nature exclaimed,

"How is such a man to be sufficiently admired! How can he ever be repaid for such unexampled friendship?"

"I believe it will be in your power," replied the Pastor, gently smiling.

"In mine, Mr. Athelstone?"

"Yes, give him Cornelia! and I am mistaken, if he would accept the future Empress of Germany in exchange."

A full explanation immediately ensued. And, after having mutually agreed, not to notice the latter discovery to Cornelia, until the Duke should avow his sentiments to her guardians; Mr. Athelstone, and the happy mother parted; he, to his midnight orisons; and she, not neglectful of the same, but also to plan every comfortable accommodation for the reception of him, whom she now hoped, would be her second son-in-law.

CHAP. XXVII.

The next day rose in storms. The sky was covered with clouds, flying before the wind in infinite volumes of rolling blackness. The sea raged against the beetling rocks of Lindisfarne, as if it menaced the existence of the island; and the fishers, who had prepared their little barks all along the beech, for embarkation at the dawn, were seen on every side, drawing them ashore, to prevent the mischief which threatened such small craft, from the beating of the waves.

Some, that had been more adventurous, and set forth during the night, notwithstanding the warning elements, met the fate their more prudent comrades averted; and Peter came in, to take away the almost untasted breakfast, with the melancholy tidings, that the wreck of several boats had been dashed on shore.

Mr. Athelstone anticipated a sad summons from many a bereft family in his flock; and his own anxious fears for the yacht that carried his beloved nephew, unfolding to him what were the apprehensions in every breast around him, he gently reproved the old man, for bringing in the reports of the hour, to wound the tender spirits of invalids; and glancing at Marcella, who had turned her death-like face away, he piously ejaculated:

"But, the Lord makes darkness his secret place! His pavilion round about him is dark water, and thick clouds cover him. But at the brightness of his presence, the clouds shall be removed, and he shall take them who trust in him, out of many waters!"

Cornelia rose from her seat, and withdrew. And when the encrease of the storm became too intolerable for Marcella to endure with any apparent tranquillity, she too, left the Abbot's chair, and putting her unsteady hand upon the arm of her mother, hardly sustained herself out of the room.

The sky was red on the horizon, as if dyed in blood, and the lurid clouds, tumbling over each other, like an upward sea of molten fire, roared in the blast, amid the thundering of the waves below, which dashed their boiling surges in mountainous and foaming heaps, against the stupendous cliffs of the opposite shore.

Mr. Athelstone and Ferdinand were both on different parts of the rock, each with his telescope in his hand, looking afar for the only object which now possessed their thought. But a furious tornado of sleet and rain, accompanied with thunder and lightning, and a darkness at noon-day, black as midnight, shrouded them at once; and the re-doubling tempest which burst forth above and beneath, seemed to shake the old rocks of Lindisfarne to their foundations.

At the fearful concussion, which appeared to the inhabitants of the Pastorage, like the awful summons on the judgment-day, Marcella threw herself on the bosom of her mother, and murmured, "Louis!" till her swooning voice was heard no more.

Cornelia was alone, and fell from her knees, prostrate on the floor. She was found in that position, and insensible as her friend, when Alice ran into the room in the agony of her fears; and her screams brought their terrified mother into the same apartment.

Mr. Athelstone's look-out of utter hopelessness, was succeeded by the now doubly afflicting duty of visiting and consoling the widows and the orphans, which the present horrors had rendered dependent on his spiritual comfort. More than one drowned body was carried before him, into the sorrowing cottage which had once been its home; and, after he had soothed the wretched inhabitants with "the hope which is to come;" he took his way to the Parsonage, to prepare his own family for the dreadful catastrophe to its happiness, which, he did not doubt that night, or the next morning, would unfold.

Ferdinand would not relinquish his more cheering expectations, till despair should appear before him, in the lifeless bodies of his friends.

Noon, and evening, and approaching night, were only marked, to the lately so happy Pastorage, now the house of mourning, by the fits of the storm. Marcella lay weeping in her mother's arms, no longer disguising the condition of her heart. And the Marchioness, in more audible anguish, wrung her hands over her, frequently exclaiming--

"Oh, most unholy Island! Would to God we had never seen its rocks! Marcella, my child, my child! Still live for your fond mother."

Cornelia lay buried in the coverlid of her bed, in that terrible stillness, which alike disdained further concealment of her grief, and rejected the comfort that could not reach her heart. Mrs. Coningsby knelt by her bed-side, and Alice, ran weeping from room to room, offering her insufficient consolations to all.

Mr. Athelstone knew that this terrific hour of suspense, was not the time to do more than repeat his first injunctions to hope even while they feared; and to trust in the preserving power, or the support of Him, who alike commanded the great deep, and the firm land.

None in the island slept that tremendous night; but those whose eyes the surge had closed, never to wake again till time should be no more. Mr. Athelstone remained alone in his study, composing himself for the task he dreaded the morning would call upon him to fulfil; or walking to and fro, struggling with the human affections in his breast which unmanned all his resignation, when he pictured the weltering waves which were then washing the lifeless body of his beloved Louis.

"Oh, my child!" cried he, "was it for this, that all those endowments were bestowed?--That all these trials have been sustained!"

But he checked the rebellious grief that channelled his venerable cheeks with tears; and, bowing before Him, whose gracious providence he preached, he exclaimed,--"Not my will, but thine be done! For I asked of thee life for him, and honour; but thou hast given him immortality, and glory, even for ever!"

Whilst he was in the depths of these devotions, the violence of the storm gradually subsided, and a stillness, horrid to meditation, succeeded. It was a pause in nature, that seemed to declare the work of destruction was accomplished, and the destroying agents might repose.

The dawn slowly broke, and found the pious man with his Bible before him. A suppressed bustle, sounded from the hall. He started from his seat, and entering the intervening room, met Ferdinand with his cloaths and hair dripping, having neither hat nor cloak; but joy was in his countenance, and seizing Mr. Athelstone's hand,

"They are safe!" cried he, "My father, and Sir Anthony, bring the good tidings! The yatch is safe!"

The Pastor bent his silvered head for a moment on the shoulder of Ferdinand, and the holy man's sacred response ascended to heaven. When he looked up, the Marquis Santa Cruz, and Sir Anthony were in the room; and they replied to his grateful questions, by informing him in detail, of what the following is a brief account.

The Marquis and the Baronet met at the young King's levee. They mutually recognised each other, and when their respective businesses in London were finished, they agreed to return together to Lindisfarne. The tempest which produced such calamitous effects at sea, extended itself far on the land; and the travellers encountering its worst fury in the road near Bamborough, the Baronet deemed it prudent to proceed to the castle, and remain there till the state of the weather would allow a boat to cross without risque.

During the night, and in the greatest press of the storm, he heard a gun of distress. A beacon always burnt on what was called the beltale-tower of the castle; but on the present intimation of some ship in danger, he ordered other lights to be lit on a promontory which shot farther into the sea. His life boat also was dispatched to the assistance of the vessel. It came up with her in the crisis of her fate; "and the result was," cried Sir Anthony, "she was hauled safely into the Castle-creek."

"And her freight," rejoined the Marquis, with a smile and a humid eye, "was Sir Anthony's old friend and our dear de Montemar!"

"Oh, Providence!" piously exclaimed the Pastor, "how measureless ought to be our gratitude unto thee!"

"It shall be registered on those very rocks where he might have been wrecked!" returned the Baronet. "When Louis blessed the well known lights of Bamborough, which had rescued him and his friend from a watery grave, the proper act of gratitude struck at once upon my mind. He is to be my heir, and I told him that my ghost should haunt him day and night, if he did not make those towers for ever after a beacon for the mariner, and his asylum from the waves! And they shall be so!" added the Baronet, solemnly striking his hand upon his breast. The news was soon spread throughout the house. And when Mr. Athelstone returned from imparting it to the two chambers of the deepest anxiety, it was with the grateful tears of both Cornelia and Marcella, yet wet upon his venerable cheeks, that he re-entered the room.

He found that Ferdinand, who was now gone to throw off his wet garments, had never been within the whole night, but had passed it in traversing the island from rock to rock, vainly listening to the roaring ocean; and gazing through the darkness for what he feared, she should never see again. He was the first object the crossing boat of Sir Anthony saw on the western cliffs of Lindisfarne. Ferdinand had descried the little vessel at a distance; and hastening down to see what it contained, he recognised his father, and soon after was told the joyful tidings which brought them so early across the strait.

The perils which the yacht had weathered, were not to be described; and the Duke was so exhausted in consequence, Don Garcia would not allow him to attempt the island until he had obtained some repose.

"I'faith," continued the Baronet, with a thoughtless laugh; "I believe I gave my worthy friend but a thorny pillow for his opiad, by telling him my reception from the young King! Indeed he is so gracious to all ranks, the friends of a certain Prince may consider it the worst thing that ever happened to their cause, when their prayers were answered by the demise of George the First! George the Second understands that Englishmen are born free and will remain so; and while he, and such as he, hold the British sceptre, I shall always be one to say, Long live the House of Brunswick!"

"Amen!" exclaimed the Pastor.

"I do not dissent from your sentiment!" rejoined the Marquis "and whatever may be my impressions in favour of his royal competitor; I must admit that while the house of Brunswick is represented by such a character as the present Prince who fills the throne, James Stuart can have no hope. To attempt the subversion of a power, founded on the virtues of the possessor, would be to outrage heaven, and lead on to unavailing bloodshed. Of this Louis has so thoroughly convinced Duke Wharton, that even he acknowledges, the little probability of any sword being drawn again in the contest, either in his life time, or in that of the present monarch."