GLENARVON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

1816.

London: Printed by Schulze and Dean, 13, Poland Street.

Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme

Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.

CHAPTER I.

In the morning Calantha beheld crowds of discontented catholics who thronged the outer courts waiting to see her father. Petitions for redress were thrown in at the windows; and whilst they were at breakfast, Sir Everard entering, without even waiting to see who was present, asked eagerly if the Duke was at home: he, at the same moment gave a huge paper closely written, into the hands of one of the servants, desiring it to be instantly delivered to the Duke; “and tell him, sir,” vociferated the doctor, “it is my case written out clear, as he commanded—the one I had the honour to present to him t’other day, when he had not leisure to look upon it:” then turning round, 4 and seeing Calantha, “By my soul,” he exclaimed, “if here ain’t my own dear Lady Calantha; and God be praised Madam, you are come amongst us; for the devil and all is broke loose since you’ve been away. Let’s look at you: well, and you are as tall and handsome as ever; but I—Oh! Lady Calantha Delaval, begging your pardon, what a miserable wretch am I become. Lord help me, and deliver

me. Lord help us all, in unmerited affliction.”

Calantha had not heard of Sir Everard’s misfortunes; and was really afraid to ask him what had occurred. He held her hand, and wept so audibly, that she already saw some of those present turning away, for fear they should not be able to conceal their laughter: his strange gestures were indeed a hard trial. “Be pacified, calm yourself my good Doctor,” said Mrs. Seymour, giving him a chair: “Heaven forfend,” said Sir Everard: “Nature, Madam, will have a vent. I am the most 5 miserable man alive: I am undone, you well know; but Lord! this dear child knows little if any thing about it. Oh! I am a mere nothing now in the universe.” Gondimar, with a smile, assured Sir Everard that could never be the case, whilst he retained, unimpaired, that full rotundity of form. “Sir, are you here?” cried the Doctor, fiercely: “but it is of small importance. I am no longer the soft phlegmatic being you left me. I am a wild beast, Sir—a dangerous animal.—Away with your scoffs.—I will fight, Sir—murder, Sir—aye, and smile whilst I murder.”

There was something in these words which turned Lady Margaret’s cheeks to a deadly pale; but the Doctor, who had sought for forcible expressions alone, without the least heeding the application, continued to storm and to rage. “I’m a man,” he cried, “accustomed to sufferings and to insult. Would you credit it, dear Lady Calantha: can you comprehend 6 it?—that lawless gang—those licentious democrats—those rebellious libertines, have imposed on the inordinate folly of my wife and daughters, who, struck mad, like Agave in the orgies of Bacchus, are running wild about the country, their hair dishevelled, their heads ornamented with green cockades, and Lady St. Clare, to the shame of her sex and me, the property of a recruiting serjeant, employed by one of that nest of serpents at the abbey, to delude others, and all, I believe, occasioned by that arch fiend, Glenarvon.”

“Oh!” cried Gerald MacAllain, who was in attendance at the breakfast table, “saving your honour’s pardon, the young Lord of Glenarvon has been the cause of my two brave boys being saved from the gallows. I will rather lose my life, than stand to hear him called an arch fiend.” “He is one, old Gerald, whether you or I call him so or no. Witness how, the other night, he set the rabble with their 7 torches to burning Mr. O’Flarney’s barns, and stealing his sheep and oxen and all his goods.” “Och it’s my belief the rector of Belfont, when he comes, will speak a word for him thoft,” returned Gerald MacAllain; “for, save the presence of the Duke, who is not here to hear me, he has been our guard and defence all the while his grace’s honour has been out of the kingdom.” “Curses light upon him and his gang,” cried Sir Everard, furiously. “Are not Miss Laura and Miss Jessica after him at this very time, and my pretty niece, my young, my dear Elinor, and Lady St. Clare, more crazy than all, is not she following him about as if he were some god?”

“The whole country are after him,” cried Gerald MacAllain, enthusiastically: “it’s a rage, a fashion.” “It’s a phrenzy,” returned the Doctor,—“a pestilence which has fallen on the land, and all, it’s my belief, because the stripling has not one christian principle, or habit in him: 8 he’s a heathen.” “If it is the young Glenarvon,” said Gondimar, approaching the irritated Doctor, “he is my friend.” “Don’t bring any of your knock me down arguments to me, Sir. His being your friend, only gives a blacker shade to his character, in my opinion.” “Sir, I hate personal attacks.” “A blow that hits, Count, and a cap that fits, are sure to make a sufferer look foolish, excessively foolish: not but what you did so before. I never believed in baseness and malignity till I knew the Count Gondimar.” “Nor I in arrogance and stupidity, till I knew Sir Everard.” “Count, you are the object of my astonishment.” “And you, Sir, of my derision.” “Italian, I despise you,” “I should only feel mortified, if Sir Everard did otherwise.”

“The contempt, Sir, of the meanest, cannot be a matter of triumph.” “It is a mark of wisdom, to be proud of the scorn of fools.” “Passion makes me mad.” “Sir, you were that before.” 9 “I shall forget myself.” “I wish you would permit me to do so.”

“A truce to these quarrels, good doctor,” said the Duke, who had entered the room during the latter part of the discussion. “I have been reading some papers of a very serious nature; and I am sorry to say it appears from them that Sir Everard has very great cause for his present irritation of mind: he is an aggrieved man. This Lord Glenarvon or whatever the young gentleman styles himself, has acted in a manner not only unjustifiable, but such as I am afraid will ultimately lead to his entire ruin. Count Gondimar, I have often heard you speak of this unfortunate young man, with more than common interest. Could not you make use of your friendship and intimacy with him, to warn him of the danger of his present conduct, and lead him from the society of his worthless associates. He seems to be acting under the influence of a mad infatuation.” Gondimar 10 assured the Duke, that he had no sort of influence with the young Lord. “Read these papers, at your leisure,” said the Duke: “they are statements, you will find, of a number of outrages committed by

himself and his followers, on people highly respectable and utterly defenceless. For the common follies of youth, there is much excuse; but nothing can palliate repeated acts of licentious wickedness and unprovoked cruelty. I am inclined to believe these accounts are much exaggerated; but the list of grievances is large; and the petitioners for redress are many of them my most worthy and long-tried servants, at the head of whom O’Flarney’s name is to be found.”

“No, my Lord,—mine is at the head of the list,” cried the doctor; “and in every other part of it, no injuries can be equal to mine. What are barns, pigs, firearms, compared to a father’s wrongs—a husband’s injuries. Ah, consider my case first. Restore Miss St. Clare, and I’ll 11 be pacified. Why do I raise laughter by my cry? It is my niece, my favourite child, who has been taken from me.” “Pray explain to me seriously, Sir,” said Lady Augusta, approaching the doctor, with much appearance of interest, “how came your family to fall into the unfortunate situation to which you allude?” “How came they,” said the Count? “can you ask, when you see Sir Everard at the head of it?” “Madam,” said the Doctor with equal solemnity, “this momentous crisis has been approaching some time. St. Clara, as we called her, my most lovely and interesting Elinor’s affections have long been seduced. We all knew, lamented and concealed the circumstance. The old lady’s conduct, however, was quite an unexpected blow. But since they took to

their nocturnal rambles to St. Mary’s, St. Alvin’s, and all the saints around, their sanctity has not been much mended that I see, and their wits are fairly overset. 12 As to my girls, I really feel for them: my own disgrace I can easily support: but oh my Elinor!”

“What nocturnal meetings have taken place at St. Mary’s and St. Alvin’s?” said Lady Trelawney, with a face of eager curiosity. “The discontented flock together in shoals,” said the Doctor, indignantly, “till by their machinations, they will overturn the State. At Belfont, opposite my very window,—aye, even in that great square house which Mr. Ochallavan built, on purpose to obstruct Lady St. Clare’s view, have they not set up a library? The Lord help me. And was it not there I first saw that accursed pamphlet Lord Glenarvon wrote; which rhapsody did not I myself immediately answer? Lady Calantha, strange things have occurred since your departure. Captain Kennedy, commander of the district, can’t keep his men. Cattle walk out of the paddocks of themselves: women, children, pigs, wander after Glenarvon: 13 and Miss Elinor, forgetful of her old father, my dear mad brother, her aunt, her religion, and all else, to the scandal of every one in their senses, heads the rabble. They have meetings under ground, and over ground; out at sea, and

in the caverns: no one can stop the infection; the poison in the fountain of life; and our very lives and estates are no longer in safety. You know not, you cannot know, what work we have had since you last left us.” Sir Everard paused, and then taking a couple of pamphlets from his pocket, entreated Calantha to peruse them. “Cast your eye over these,” he said: “I wrote them in haste; they are mere sketches of my sentiments; but I am going to publish. Oh! when you see what I am now going to publish. It is intituled a refutation of all that has or may be said by the disaffected, in or out of the kingdom.” 14

CHAPTER II.

The party at the castle had postponed their visit to St. Alvin Priory till the feast of St. Kathereen and St. Mary, which in that neighbourhood was always celebrated with much observance. A fair was held upon the downs, in honour of these two martyrs. The rocks near which the ruins of the convent stood, were called the Black Sisters, and it was there, and in the Wizzard’s Glen, which stretched from the top to the foot of the mountain, that the meetings of the discontented had been held. The day proved fair; and at an early hour the carriages and horses were in attendance. Mrs. Seymour and many others declined being of the party; but Lady Margaret took Gondimar’s arm with a smile of good humour, which she could at times put on. 15 Buchanan drove Calantha in his barouch. Sir Everard rode by Calantha’s side on a lowly white palfrey, as if to protect her. Lady Mandeville was with her; and Lady Trelawney took Sophia and Lady Augusta Selwyn in her carriage. The rest of the gentlemen were some on horseback and some in curricles.

The whole country smiled around. There were ringers, and pipers, and hurlers upon the down. The cliff, towards the sea, was covered with booths and tents. Flocks, herds and horses had been brought from far for sale, ornamented with ribbands; green being the favourite colour. Scarcely ever was witnessed a scene more gay. This, and the vessels laden with fish, crowding into the harbour below, and the high mountains beyond, struck even the Italian, whose eyes had been accustomed to all that nature can produce of picturesque and majestic. The beauty of the girls, with their long blue mantles thrown aside 16 from their shoulders, their dark hair fastened behind with a knot of ribband, was the subject of discussion. Comparisons of the difference of form between one nation and another arose. All descended from their carriages and horses. Lady Mandeville repeated poetry; Gondimar became sentimental; Buchanan looked at the horses, enquired their prices, and soon joined the hurlers, in whose combat he grew so much interested, that no one could draw him from thence until the

moment when they left the fair, where they had remained till they were all much fatigued.

“What are you laughing at so immensely?” cried Lady Augusta Selwyn, approaching Lord Trelawney, who was nearly enclosed in a circle of some hundreds. The moment Lady Augusta approached, with a courtesy seldom seen but in Ireland, the crowd made way for her. “I am listening,” said he, “to a preacher—a most capital preacher, whom 17 they call Cowdel O’Kelly. Only observe him: what a rogue it is, with that hypocrite mildness of manner, that straight black hair, that presbyterian stiffness and simplicity.” “But what is he saying?” enquired Lady Augusta. The preacher, standing upon a cart, was delivering an exhortation in a very emphatic manner, to a vast concourse of attentive hearers. The presence of the party from the Castle had no effect upon him: he was inveighing against the insolence of his superiors in rank, and pleading in favour of the rights of man.

When he had concluded his discourse, the crowd dispersed, some laughing at him, and some much edified by his discourse. O’Kelly looked after them:—“That is the way of the world,” he said: “it gets all it can from a man, and then it leaves him; but all that is, is for the best; therefore, amen, your honours; so be it.” Lord Trelawney laughed to an excess. “Your name,” said he, “I take it, it is Cowdel 18 O’Kelly.” “If you take it to be my name, your honour can’t be any ways wrong in calling me by it; but I call myself citizen Wailman.” “And why the devil, my honest friend, do you call yourself so?” “To please myself, and trick my master.” “And pray who is your master?” “When I know that, I’ll let you know.” “What! not know your master?” “Why what master knows his servant? There’s nothing extraordinary in that, my Lord.” “But pray, my good citizen Wailman, where do you live, and where does your master live?”—“I live where I can, your honour; and as to my master, every one knows he

lives under ground, in the family vault.”

“Is he dead then, or what can he be doing under ground?” said Lady Trelawney. “Looking for friends, Miss, I believe; for he has none, that I see, above board.” “I am sure this is a rebel in disguise,” whispered Lady Trelawney. Her Lord laughed. 19

A beautiful little boy now pushing his way through the crowd, plainly pronounced the words, “O’Kelly come home; I am very tired.” The man, hastily descending from the cart, called him his young prince—his treasure; and lifted him up in his arms. “He is about the same age as Henry Mowbray,” said Calantha, “and very like him. What is your name, my pretty child?” “Clare of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should by rights be Lord Clare—should it not, O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled and put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s mouth, who kissed them, and making a slight bow, would have retired. “What, are you going? will you not stay a moment?” “I fear I intrude too much on your honour’s time.” “Not in the least—not in the least, good Mister Wailman; pray stay a little longer.” “Why, fair and honest, if I don’t intrude too much on your time, my lord, you do on mine; and so your servant.” 20

“I really believe he belongs to the abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who had re-entered her barouche, and was driving with the rest of the party, towards St. Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along by the cliff, in the same direction we are going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady Augusta; “but to be sure no more like Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in the seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, pray look,” interrupted Frances: “I assure you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s wife, and Lauriana and Jessica are with her. I am certain of it,” she continued, throwing herself nearly out of the carriage to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney was extremely diverted. “And there is the recruiting serjeant: only observe the manner in which they are habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest in the most flaunting attire, singing in chorus the song of liberty, covered with green ribbands, were walking in company with a vast number of young 21 men, most of them intoxicated, and all talking and laughing loudly. Calantha begged Buchanan to stop the carriage,

that she also might see them pass; which they did, marching to the sound of the drum and fife: but her heart sickened when she saw the beautiful recluse of Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came near: she raised her full black eye, and gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha.

It was the same face she had seen a few years back at the convent: but alas, how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson of her cheek, the deep dark brown of the wild ringlets which waved above her brow, the bold masculine manners and dress she had assumed, contrasting with the slender beauty of her upright form. She was drest in uniform, and walked by the side of a young man, whose pale, thoughtful countenance struck every one. Elinor appeared desperate and utterly hardened: her presence 22 inspired Calantha with a mixed feeling of horror and commiseration, which Lady St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and clumsy personages turned into disgust.

“Oh did you behold her?—did you see my poor deluded Elinor?” cried Sir Everard, riding up to Calantha, as she still gazed from the open carriage upon the procession: “did you see my unfortunate girls?” “I did, indeed,” said Lady Avondale, the tears springing into her eyes: “I saw them and stopped; for it occurred to me, that, perhaps, I might speak to them—might yet save them.” “And would you have condescended so much? Oh! this is more than I dared ask or hope.” Saying which, the Doctor wept, as was his custom, and Buchanan laughed. “You are so good,” continued he: “you were in tears when you saw your former playmates disgracing themselves, and their sex, but in the rest of the carriages I heard 23 nothing but jesting, and loud laughter. And oh! would you credit it, can you believe it, Lady St. Clare had the audacity to drop me a courtesy as she passed.”

“Was the tall young man, who was walking by the side of Elinor, Cyrel Linden?” “It was the same,” cried the Doctor—“gone mad like the rest, though they tell me it is all for the love of Miss Alice; and that since her loss, he is grown desperate, and cares not what becomes of him. They’ll be hanged, however; that is one consolation—Lady St. Clare, as well as the rest. Indeed,” cried he, drawing closer, “I am credibly informed that the officers of justice have an eye upon them, and wait only to obtain further evidence of their treasonable practices, to take them up.” During this discourse, the carriage drove slowly up the hill; but soon proceeding at a brisker pace, the doctor was obliged to draw in his steed and retire. The party now entered the park. 24

CHAPTER III.