Transcriber’s Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  The following are possible misspellings:
       affright
       agressors
       Annabel, Anabel
       barouche, barouch
       concientious
       contemn
       controul
       Costoly, Costolly, Costally
       ecstasy, ecstacy
       encrease, increase
       extrame
       faltered, faultered
       Glenaa, Glanaa
       ideotsy
       impassioned, empassioned
       insense
       intreated, entreated
       irresistably
       mediately
       Mowbray, Mowbrey
       pallaver
       rouze, rouse
       secresy
       stedfast
       Trelawney, Trelawny
       villify
       vinyards

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




     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, 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 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 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 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: 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.” “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 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 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. 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: 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.”




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. 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 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 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 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.

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.”

“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 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 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 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.




CHAPTER III.


Belfont Abbey and St. Alvin’s ruined Priory appeared in view. The ivy
climbed around the turrets; and the grass grew upon the paved courts,
where desolation and long neglect prevailed. At a distance from the
convent, a ruin, a lonely pile stood upon the cliff in solitary grandeur.
Not a tree, nor any appearance of cultivation was seen around: barren
moors, the distant mountains, and the vast ocean, every where filled
the eye. The servants rang at the bell of the outer gate: it resounded
through the vaulted passages with a long repeated echo.—A boy immediately
answered the summons: with a look of stupid astonishment, he waited in
expectation of their commands.

Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they might see the Priory. “I suppose
so,” was his reply. And without further preamble, they alighted. “It
must be rather melancholy to live here during the winter months,” said
Calantha to the boy, as she passed him. “And summer too,” he answered.
“We are told,” said Frances, “that this Priory is haunted by ghosts:
have you ever seen any?” He shook his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’
please your honour,” he said; “but I never meddle with them, so they
never comes after me as I see.” “Are you going to shew us the house?”
cried Sir Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do you keep us waiting in
this dark passage? go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding towards
an inner apartment, knocked at the door, calling to the housekeeper, and
telling her that there was company below who wished to take the round
of the castle. The old dame courtesying low in a mysterious manner led
the way: the boy immediately retreated.

Calantha was much tired; her spirits had undergone a severe shock; and
the sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was still called, made an
impression upon her she scarcely could account for. The gaiety of the
dresses, the fineness of the evening, the chorus of voices laughing and
singing as they marched along, indifferent apparently to their future
fate—perhaps hardened and insensible to it—all made an impression which
it is impossible the description of the scene can give; but long it
dwelt in her remembrance. Unused to check herself in any feeling, she
insisted upon remaining in front of the Castle, whilst the rest of the
party explored its secret mysteries and recesses. “I am sure you are
frightened,” said Lord Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have more cause
than we: it looks very gloomy without, as well as within.”

They went, and she remained upon the cliff, watching the calm sea, and
the boats at a distance, as they passed and repassed from the fair.
“And can a few short years thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, “was
St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? can one moment of error thus have
changed her? Oh it is not possible. Long before the opportunity for evil
presented itself, her uncontrouled passions must have misled her, and
her imagination, wild and lawless, must have depraved her heart. Alice
was innocent: he who first seduced her from peace, deceived her; but
St. Clara was not of this character. I understand—I think I understand
the feelings which impelled her to evil. Her image haunts me. I tremble
with apprehension. Something within seems to warn me, and to say that,
if I wander from virtue like her, nothing will check my course—all
the barriers, that others fear to overstep, are nothing before me.
God preserve me from sin! the sight of St. Clara fills me with alarm.
Avondale, where art thou? save me. My course is but just begun: who
knows whither the path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned will, has
been hitherto, my only law.”

Upon the air at that moment she heard the soft notes of a flute. She
listened attentively:—it ceased. There are times when the spirit is
troubled—when the mind, after the tumult of dissipated and active life,
requires rest and seeks to be alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us so
fast, that we hardly know how to bear them; conscience reflects upon
every former action; and the heart within trembles, as if in dread of
approaching evil. The scene around was calculated to inspire every serious
reflection. The awful majesty of the ruined building, ill accorded with
the loud laugh and the jests of the merry party now entering its walls.
Once those walls had been, perhaps inhabited by beings thoughtless and
gay. Where were they now? had they memory of the past? knowledge of the
present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes?
how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of
any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible,
be worth either solicitude or anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” said
Calantha to herself. “Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves;
let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the
dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations,
are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only
real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love.”

So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I
was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that
is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... Whilst yet indulging these
fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western turret, and watching the
shadows as they varied on the walls, she again heard the soft notes of
music. It seemed like the strains of other times, awakening in the heart
remembrances of some former state long passed and changed. Hope, love
and fond regret, answered alternately to the call. It was in the season
of the year when the flowers bloomed: it was on a spot immortalized in
ancient story, for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha turned her
eyes upwards and beheld the blue vault of heaven without a cloud. The
sea was of that glossy transparency—that shining brightness, the air of
that serene calm that, had it been during the wintry months, some might
have thought the halcyon was watching upon her nest, and breathing her
soft and melancholy minstrelsy through the air.

Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. She felt as if in a dream, and,
hastily advancing to the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, she
there beheld a youth, for he had not the form or the look of manhood,
leaning against the trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon a flute,
or breathing, as if from a suffering heart, the sweet melody of his
untaught song. He started not when she approached:—he neither saw nor
heard her—so light was her airy step, so fixed were his eyes and thoughts.
She gazed for one moment upon his countenance—she marked it. It was one
of those faces which, having once beheld, we never afterwards forget. It
seemed as if the soul of passion had been stamped and printed upon every
feature. The eye beamed into life as it threw up its dark ardent gaze,
with a look nearly of inspiration, while the proud curl of the upper lip
expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet, even mixed with these
fierce characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy and dejection shaded
and softened every harsher expression. Such a countenance spoke to the
heart, and filled it with one vague yet powerful interest—so strong, so
undefinable, that it could not easily be overcome.

Calantha felt the power, not then alone, but evermore. She felt the
empire, the charm, the peculiar charm, those features—that being must
have for her. She could have knelt and prayed to heaven to realize the
dreams, to bless the fallen angel in whose presence she at that moment
stood, to give peace to that soul, upon which was plainly stamped the
heavenly image of sensibility and genius. The air he had played was wild
and plaintive: he changed it to one more harsh. She now distinctly heard
the words he sung:

     This heart has never stoop’d its pride
       To slavish love, or woman’s wile;
     But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d
       Her craftiest art and brightest smile.

     This mind has trac’d its own career,
       Nor follow’d blind, where others trod;
     Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear,
       E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God.

     Then hope not now to touch with love,
       Or in its chains a heart to draw,
     All earthly spells have fail’d to move;
       And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe:

     A heart, that like some mountain vast,
       And cold with never-melting snow,
     Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast
       A look away on aught below.

An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself,
had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different
feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till
she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been
left by her companions.

While yet dwelling in thought upon the singular being she had one moment
beheld—whilst asking herself what meant this new, this strange emotion,
she found another personage by her side, and recognized, through a new
disguise, her morning’s acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, otherwise
called Cowdel O’Kelly. This rencontre gave an immediate turn to her
thoughts. She enquired of him if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey?
“No, madam,” he answered, “but of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him to
inform her, whether any one resided there who sung in the manner she
then described. “Sure, then, I sing myself in that manner,” said the
man, “if that’s all; and beside me, there be some who howl and wail, the
like you never heard. Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it must
have moved your heart to tears.”

“Explain yourself,” said Calantha eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is
the same I have seen and heard. Tell me what sorrows have befallen
him?” “Sorrows! why enough too, to plague any man. Has he not got the
distemper?” “The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did he not catch it sleeping
in our dog-kennel, as he stood petrified there one night, kilt by the
cold? When my Lord found him, he had not a house to his head then, it’s
my belief; but now indeed he’s got one, he’s no wiser, having, as I
think, no head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise you how he howls
and barks, whenever the moon shines bright. But here be those who fell
on me at the fair. In truth I believe they be searching for the like of
you.”




CHAPTER IV.


The party from the castle now joined Calantha. They were in evident
discomfiture. Their adventures had been rather less romantic than Lady
Avondale’s, and consequently had not given them such refined pleasure; for
while she was attending to a strain of such enchanting sweetness, they
had been forcibly detained in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly
listening to very different music.

The housekeeper having led them through the galleries, the ladies,
escorted by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney and Sir Everard, turned to
examine some of the portraits, fretted cornices and high casements, till
the dame who led the way, calling to them, shewed them a large dreary
apartment hung with tapestry, and requested them to observe the view
from the window. “It is here,” she said, “in this chamber, that John de
Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of his enemy and died.” A loud
groan, at that moment, proceeded from an inner chamber. “That must be the
ghost,” said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. The dame, terrified at
Lady Trelawney’s terror, returned the shriek by a piercing yell, rushed
from the room, closing the heavy door in haste, which fastened with a
spring lock, and left the company not a little disconcerted.

“We are a good number, however,” cried Frances, taking fast hold of her
Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. “We certainly can match the ghost in
point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant to be confined here till
the old woman recovers her senses.” Groans most piteous and terrible
interrupted this remark—groans uttered as if in the agony of a soul ill
at rest. Sophia grasped Sir Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard looked
at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret disdainfully returned the glance. “I
fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly have this affair examined.
I shall speak to my brother the moment I return: there is possibly some
evil concealed which requires investigation.” “Hark! I hear a step,” said
Frances. “If I were not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord Trelawney,
“faith, I would climb up to that small grated window.”

“I fear no ghosts,” replied Count Gondimar, smiling. “The sun has not
set, therefore I defy them thus.—Only take care and hold the stool upon
the table, that I may not break my neck.” “What do you see?” “A large
room lighted by two candles:—would it were but a lamp.” “Truly this
is a fair beginning.—What is the matter now?—why what the devil is the
matter?—If you come down so precipitately I cannot support you. Help!
the Count is literally fainting.” It was true. “A sudden dizziness—a
palpitation”—He only uttered these words and fell; a ghastly paleness
overspread his face; the cold damps stood upon his forehead.

“This is the most unfortunate confirmation of the effects of terror upon
an evil conscience,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “that ever I beheld. I’ll
be bound there is not an Irish or English man here, that would have been
so frightened.” “It’s a dizziness, a mere fainting fit,” said Gondimar,
“Let me feel his pulse,” cried Sir Everard. “Well, doctor?” “Well, sir,
he has no pulse left:—give him air.” “I am better now,” said Gondimar,
with a smile, as he revived. “Was I ill enough for this?”—Sir Everard
called in. Lord Trelawney’s curiosity engaged him to climb to the grated
window; but the candles had been extinguished, probably, for all beyond
the window was utter darkness.

Whilst some were assisting the Count, the rest had been vainly
endeavouring to open the door. A key was now heard on the outside; and
the solemn boy entering, said to Lady Margaret, “I am come to tell your
honour, that our dame being taken with the qualms and stericks, is no
ways able of shewing you any further into the Priory.” “I trust, however,
that you will immediately shew us out of it, Sir,” said Gondimar. “It
not being her fault, but her extrame weakness,” continued the boy: “she
desires me to hope your honours will excuse her.” “We will certainly
excuse her; but,” added Lady Margaret, “I must insist upon knowing from
her, or from some of you, the cause of the groans we heard, and what all
those absurd stories of ghosts can arise from. I shall send an order for
the house to undergo an immediate examination, so you had better tell
all you know.”

“Then, indeed, there be no mischief in them groans,” said the boy, who
appeared indifferent whether the house were examined or not. “It’s only
that gentleman as howls so, who makes them queer noises. I thought ye’d
heard something stranger than that. There be more singular noises than
he makes, many’s the time.” “Sirrah, inform me who inhabits this d——d
Priory?” said Count Gondimar. “What, you’re recovered from your qualms
and stericks, I perceive, though the old dame is so ill with them?”
“No jesting, Sir Everard. I must sift this affair to the bottom. Come,
Sir, answer straightly, who inhabits this Priory?” “Sure, Sir, indeed
none as can get a bed in the Abbey,” “You evade, young one: you evade
my enquiry: to the point; be plain.” “That he can’t help being,” said
Lord Trelawney. “Proceed, Sir, lead us as fast as possible out of these
cold damp galleries; but talk as you go.” “Like the cuckoo.” “Lord
Trelawney, your jests are mighty pleasant; but I have peculiar reasons
for my enquiries.” “And I for my jokes.” “Come, Sirrah, proceed: I shall
say no more at present.” “Do you like being here?” said Lady Trelawney,
taking up the question. “Well enough,” returned the stupid boy. “I hear,”
continued Frances, “there are some who play upon the harp in the night,
and sing so, that the country people round, say they are spell-bound.”
“Oh musha! there be strange things heard in these here old houses: one
must not always believe all one hears.”

Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, were engaged in deep discourse. “I can
hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most true—most terribly true,” said
Gondimar. “I will question the boy myself,” she cried; “he is subtle
with all that appearance of clownish simplicity; but we shall gather
something from him. Now, Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, and do
you lead these gentlemen and ladies into the fresh air. Lady Augusta
says she longs to behold living objects and day-light. I shall soon
overtake you. Come here. I think, from what I have gathered, that St.
Alvin Priory has not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon family since
the year ****: in that case, who has had charge of it?” “None but Mr.
Mackenzie and Dame since the old Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young
Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality in these parts till now; but
about three years and better, the young Lord sent some of his friends
here, he being in Italy; and as they only asked for the ould ruin, and
did not wish to meddle with the castle, they have done their will there.
The steward lets them bide.”

“Have they been here above three years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve
not, your honour; for sometimes they’ve all been here, and sometimes
there’s not a soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, there’s been no
peace for them.” “Can you tell me any of their names?” “All, I believe;
for isn’t there one calls himself Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be
the master, the real Lord; but he cares not to have it thought: only
he’s such a manner with him, one can’t but think it. Then there’s Mister
O’Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there’s
another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there’s a gentleman
cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is
Macpherson; then there’s the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O’Grady;
and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and
revel here.” “And what right have they to be here?” “Why to be sure,
then, they’ve not any right at all; that’s what we are all talking of;
except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked
life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s the reason, for
some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s
known as to what’s gone with him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! the
young master’s here, and the only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a
christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” “Ah! sure your honour knows
him.”

Having reached the front porch, by the time the boy had gone through
his examination, Lady Margaret perceiving O’Kelly, sent for him, and
tried, vainly, to make him answer her enquiries more satisfactorily;
which not being able to accomplish, she set forth to return home, in an
extreme ill humour. Lord Trelawney rallied her about the ghost. Casting
an angry glance at him, she refused positively to return home in either
of the carriages; saying, she was resolved to walk back across the cliff,
the short way. Some of the gentlemen proposed escorting her; but she
haughtily refused them, and desired permission to be a few moments left
to herself. They, therefore, re-entered their carriages, and returned
without any further event.

Calantha was tired and grave during the drive home; and, what may perhaps
appear strange, she named not her adventure. “It is himself—it must
be.” “Who?” said Lady Mandeville. Confused at having betrayed her own
thoughts,—“Young Linden,” she cried, looking out of the carriage; and
then feigned sleep, that she might think over again and again on that
countenance, that voice, that being, she had one moment seen.




CHAPTER V.


Lady Margaret walking hastily off, had arrived near the Convent of St.
Mary, as the last ray of the setting sun blazed in the west, and threw its
golden light over the horizon. Close to the convent, is built the chapel
where the young Marquis and all the family of Altamonte are interred.
It stands upon a high barren cliff, separated by a branch of the sea
from the village of Belfont, to which any one may pass by means of the
ferry below. To the north of the chapel, as far as the eye can trace,
barren heaths and moors, and the distant view of Belfont and St. Alvin
Priory, present a cheerless aspect; while the other side displays the
rich valley of Delaval, its groves, gardens and lake, with the adjacent
wood.

At this spot Lady Margaret arrived, as has been said, at sun-set. She
thought she had been alone; but she heard a step closely following her:
she turned round, and, to her extreme surprise, beheld a man pursuing her,
and, just at that moment, on the point of attaining her. His black brows
and eyes were contrasted with his grizzly hair; his laugh was hollow;
his dress wild and tawdry. If she stopped for a moment to take breath,
he stopped at the same time; if she advanced rapidly, he followed. She
heard his steps behind, till passing near the convent he paused, rending
the air with his groans, and his clenched fist repeatedly striking his
forehead, with all the appearance of maniac fury, whilst with his voice
he imitated the howling of the wind.

Terrified, fatigued and oppressed, Lady Margaret fled into the thickest
part of the wood, and waited till she conceived the cause of her terror
was removed. She soon perceived, however, that the tall figure behind
her was waiting for her reappearance. She determined to try the swiftness
of her foot, and sought with speed to gain the ferry:—she durst not look
behind:—the heavy steps of her pursuer gained upon her:—suddenly she felt
his hand upon her shoulder, as, with a shrill voice and loud laugh, he
triumphed at having overtaken her. She uttered a piercing shriek; for
on turning round she beheld....

His name I cannot at present declare; yet this I will say: it was terrible
to her to gaze upon that eye—so hollow, so wild, so fearful was its
glance. From the sepulchre, the dead appeared to have arisen to affright
her; and, scarce recovering from the dreadful vision, with a faltering
step, and beating heart, she broke from that grasp—that cold hand—that
dim-fixed eye—and gained with difficulty the hut of the fisherman, who
placed her in safety on the other side of the cliff.

The castle bell had already summoned the family; dinner awaited; and
the duke having repeatedly enquired for Lady Margaret, was surprised
to hear that she had returned home alone and after dusk. The servant,
who informed him of this circumstance, said that her ladyship appeared
extremely faint and tired; that her women attendants had been called;
that they apprehended she was more ill than she would acknowledge. He
was yet speaking, when, with a blaze of beauty and even more than her
usual magnificence of dress, she entered, apologised for the lateness of
her appearance, said the walk was longer than she had apprehended, and,
taking her brother’s arm, led the way into the dining room. But soon the
effort she had made, proved too great:—her colour changed repeatedly;
she complained that the noise distracted her; she scarcely took any part
in the conversation, and retiring early, sought a few hours’ repose.

Mrs. Seymour accompanied her out, whilst the rest of those whose
curiosity had been much excited in the morning, narrated their morning
adventures and enquired eagerly concerning Lord Glenarvon’s character
and mode of life. At the mention of his name, the colour rushed into
Calantha’s face. Was it himself she had seen?—She was convinced it
was. That countenance verified all that she had heard against him: it
was a full contradiction to all that Lady Trelawney had spoken in his
favour; it expressed a capability of evil—a subtlety that led the eye
of a stranger to distrust; but, with all, it was not easily forgotten.
The address to the people of Ireland which Lady Avondale had read before
with enthusiasm, she read now with a new, an undefinable sensation. She
drew also those features—that countenance; and remembered the air he had
sung and the tones of his voice.—She seemed to dive into the feelings of
a heart utterly different from what she had ever yet observed: a sort
of instinct gave her power at once to penetrate into its most secret
recesses; nor was she mistaken. She heard, with eager curiosity, every
anecdote narrated of him by the country esquires and gentry who dined
at the castle; but she felt not surprised at the inconsistencies and
absurdities repeated. Others discredited what was said: she believed the
worst; yet still the interest she felt was undiminished. It is strange:
she loved not—she admired not that countenance; yet, by day, by night,
it pursued her. She could not rest, nor write, nor read; and the fear
of again seeing it, was greater than the desire of doing so. She felt
assured that it was Lord Glenarvon:—there was not a doubt left upon her
mind respecting this circumstance. Mrs. Seymour saw that Calantha was
pre-occupied: she thought that she was acquainted with the secret which
disturbed Lady Margaret—that horrid secret which maddened and destroyed
her: for, since her adventure at the Priory, Lady Margaret had been ill.

It was not till after some days retirement, that she sent for Calantha,
and when she visited her in her own apartment, she found her silent
and trembling. “Where is your boy?” she said. “He sleeps: would you
that I should bring him you?” “I do not mean your son: I mean that
minion—that gaudy thing, you dress up for your amusement—that fawning
insect Zerbellini.” Calantha shuddered; for she knew that a mother could
not thus speak of her child without suffering acutely. “Has my pretty
Zerbellini done any thing to deserve such unkind words from you? If so,
I will chide him for it. Why do you frown? Zerbellini haste here: make
your obeisance to Lady Margaret.” The boy approached: Lady Margaret fixed
her eyes steadily upon him: the colour rushed into her cheek, then left
her pale, as the hue of death. “_Oimè si muoja!_” exclaimed, Zerbellini:
“_Eccelenza si muoja_;” and he leant forward to support her; but Lady
Margaret moved not.

Many moments passed in entire silence. At last, starting as if from
deep reflection, “Calantha” she said, “I know your heart too well to
doubt its kindness:—the presence of this child, will cause the misery of
your father.” “Of my father!” “Do you not guess wherefore? I read his
feelings yesterday: and can you my child be less quick in penetrating
the sentiments of those you love? do you not perceive that Zerbellini is
of the very age and size—your lost—and—lamented brother would have been?
... and certainly not unlike the duchess.” She hesitated—paused—recovered
herself. “I would not for the world have you suggest this to a human
being. I would not appear to have said—what you, out of an affectionate
regard might—should—have considered.”—“I am astonished: you quite amaze
me,” replied Calantha; yet she too well guessed her feelings.

You heard your father yesterday say, how necessary it was for him to
attend the general meeting at Belfast: he flies us to avoid this boy—the
likeness—in short, oblige me, place him at the garden cottage, or at the
Rector of Belfont’s—he will attend to him. I am told you mean to leave
your children with Mr. Challoner: if so, he might likewise keep this
boy. His strong resemblance—his age—his manner—have given me already the
acutest pain.—My brother will never demand any sacrifice of you;—but I,
Lady Avondale,—I solicit it.—“Shall I be refused”? “Dearest aunt, can
you ask this? Zerbellini shall be immediately sent from the castle.” “Oh
no: such precipitate removal would excite curiosity.” “Well then, allow
me to place him, as you say, under the care of the Rector of Belfont
and his wife—or—” “But how strange—why—did you never observe this before?”

“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a hollow tone, “it is the common
talk: every one observes it: every eye fixes itself upon him, and seems
to—to—to—reproach—to-morrow—morn—to-morrow morning, I must quit this
place—business of importance calls me away—I hope to see you shortly:
I shall return as soon as possible—perhaps I shall not go.—The trifle
I now suggest, is solely for my brother’s sake.—If you mention one word
of this to any one, the sacrifice I ask will lose its value. Above all,
if the Count Gondimar is made a confidant.” “Fear not: I shall request
as of myself, that Zerbellini may be placed with my little son: but you
cannot think how much you surprise me. My father has seen the boy so
often; has spoken so frequently with him; has appeared so perfectly at
his ease.”

“The boy,” said Lady Margaret, “is the living picture of—in short I
have dreamt a dreadful dream. Shall I confess my weakness, Calantha:
I dreamt last night, that I was sitting with a numerous and brilliant
assembly, even in this very castle; and of a sudden, robed in the white
vestments of an angel, that boy appeared—I saw his hand closely stealing
behind—he had a dagger in it—oh it made me sick—and coming towards me—I
mean towards your father—he stabbed him.—These phantasies shew an ill
constitution—but, for a short time, send the child away, and do not expose
my weakness—do not love. I have many sorrows—my nerves are shattered—bear
with me—you know not, and God forbid you should ever know, what it is
to labour under the pressure of guilt—guilt? aye,—and such as that brow
of innocence, that guileless generous heart, never can comprehend.” “My
aunt, for God sake, explain yourself.” Lady Margaret smiled. “Oh not such
guilt either, as to excite such looks as these: only I have suffered my
heart to wander, child; and I have been punished.”

Calantha was less surprised at this conversation, from remembering the
secret Gondimar had communicated, than she otherwise must have been; but
she could not understand what had given rise to this paroxysm of despair
at that particular moment. A singular circumstance now occurred, which
occasioned infinite conjecture to all around. Every morning, as soon as
it was light, and every evening at dusk, a tall old man in a tattered
garb, with a wild and terrible air, seated himself in front of the castle
windows, making the most lamentable groans, and crying out in an almost
unintelligible voice, “Woe, on woe, to the family of Altamonte.” The
Duke was no sooner apprised of this circumstance, than he ordered the
supposed maniac to be taken up; but Lady Margaret implored, entreated
and even menaced, till she obtained permission from her brother to give
this wretched object his liberty.

Such an unusual excess of charity—such sudden, and violent commiseration
of a being who appeared to have no other view than the persecution and
annoyance of her whole family, was deemed strange; but when they no longer
were molested by the presence of the fanatic, who had denounced their
ruin, they ceased to converse about him, and soon the whole affair was
forgotten. Calantha indeed remembered it; but a thousand new thoughts
diverted her attention, and a stronger interest led her from it.




CHAPTER VI.


The Rector of Belfont had willingly permitted the little Zerbellini to be
placed under his wife’s care. The distance from thence to the castle was
short; and Calantha had already sent her children there for the benefit
of sea-bathing. On returning one day thence, she called upon Gerald Mac
Allain, who had absented himself from the castle, ever since Mr. Buchanan
had appeared there. She found him mournfully employed in looking over
some papers and drawings, which he had removed to his own habitation.
Upon seeing Lady Avondale he arose, and pointing to the drawings, which
she recognized: “Poor Alice,” he said, “these little remembrances tell
me of happier days, and make me sad; but when I see you, my Lady, I
forget my sorrows.” Linden’s cottage was at a very little distance from
Gerald Mac Allain’s. Calantha now informed him that she had met young
Linden at the fair, and had wished to speak to him; but that she did not
immediately remember him, he was so altered. Gerald said “it was no use
for her to speak to him, or for any one else, he was so desperate-like;
and,” added he, “Alice’s misconduct has broke all our hearts: we never
meet now as formerly; we scarce dare look at each other as we pass.”

“Tell me, Gerald,” said Calantha, “since you have spoken to me on this
melancholy subject, what is the general opinion about Alice? Has Linden
no idea of what has become of her?—had he no suspicion, no doubt of her,
till the moment when she fled?” “Oh yes, my Lady,” said the old man,
“my poor girl estranged herself from him latterly; and when Linden was
obliged to leave her to go to the county of Leitrim for Mr. O’Flarney,
during his absence, which lasted six weeks, he received a letter from
her, expressing her sorrow that she never could belong to him. Upon
his return he found her utterly changed; and in a few weeks after, she
declined his further visits; only once again consenting to see him. It
was on the very morning before my Lady Margaret conveyed her away from
the castle.”

“But did you never suspect that things were going on ill before?—did
Linden make no attempt to see her at the Doctor’s? It seems strange
that no measures should have been taken before it was too late.” “Alas!
my dear young lady, you do not know how difficult it is to suspect and
chide what we love dearly. I had given up my child into other hands; she
was removed entirely from my humble sphere; and whilst I saw her happy,
I could not but think her deserving; and when she became otherwise,
she was miserable, and it was not the moment to shew her any severity.
Indeed, indeed, it was impossible for me to mistrust or chide one so
above me as my Alice. As to young Linden, it turned his mind. I walked
to his father’s house, ill as I was, just to shake hands with him and
see him, as soon as I was told of what had passed. The old gentleman,
Cyrel’s father, could not speak. The mother wept as soon as she beheld
me; but there was not one bitter word fell from either, though they knew
it would prove the ruin of the young man, their son, and perhaps his
death.”

“From that time, till the present,” continued Gerald, “I seldom see
Linden; he always avoids me. He altered very much, and took to hard
drinking and bad company; his mind was a little shaken; he grew very slack
at his duty; and listed, we suppose, with that same gang, which seduced
my two poor boys from their allegiance and duty. He was reprimanded and
punished by his commander; but it seems all one, for Mr. Challoner was
telling me, only a few days since, that in the last business there with
Squire O’Flarney, Linden was taken notice of by the justice. There’s
no one can save him, he seems so determined-like on his own ruin; and
they say, it’s the cause why the old father is on his death-bed at this
present time. There is no bitterness of heart like that which comes from
thankless children. They never find out, till it is too late, how parents
loved them:—but it was not her fault—no—I don’t blame her—(he knit his
brow)—no—I don’t blame her.—Mr. Buchanan is no child of our own house,
though he fills the place of that gracious infant which it pleased the
Lord to take to himself. Mr. Buchanan is the son of a strange father:—I
cannot consider him as one of our own—so arbitrary:—but that’s not the
thing.”

“Gerald,” said Calantha, “you are not sure that Buchanan is the culprit:
we should be cautious in our judgments.” “Oh, but I am sure, and I
care not to look on him; and Linden, they say, menaces to revenge on
the young lord, my wrongs and his own; but his old father begs him for
God’s sake to be peaceable. Perhaps, my Lady, you will look on the poor
gentleman: what though ’tis a dying man—you’ll be gratified to see him,
there is such a calm upon his countenance.” “Must he die?” “Why, he’s
very precarious-like:—but your noble husband, the young Lord Avondale,
is very good to him—he has done all a man and a soldier could do to save
him.” “I too will call,” said Calantha, to hide from Gerald how much
she was affected; “and, as to you, I must entreat as a favour, that you
will return to the castle: to-morrow is Harry’s birth-day; and it will
not be a holiday, my father says, if you are not, as you were wont to
be, at the head of the table with all the tenants.” “I will come,” said
Gerald, “if it were only on account of my Lord’s remembering me: and
all the blessings of the land go with him, and you, and his noble house,
till the end of time, and with the young Lord of Glenarvon beside, who
saved Roy and Conal from a shameful death—that he did.”

“But you forget,” said Calantha, smiling, “that, by your own account,
he was the first to bring them there.” “By my heart, but he’s a noble
spirit for all that; and he has my good wishes, and those of many beside.”
As he spoke, his eye kindled with enthusiasm. Calantha’s heart beat
high: she listened with eager interest. “He’s as generous as our own,”
continued he; “and if he lets his followers take a pig or two from that
rogue there, Squire Flarney, does not he give half he has to those in
distress? If I could ever meet him face to face, I’d tell him the same;
but we never know when he’s among us; for sure, there’s St. Clara the
prophetess, he went to see her once, they say, and she left her aunt the
Abbess, and the convent, and all the nuns, and went off after him, as
mad as the rest. Och! you’d bless yourself to see how the folks crowd
about him at the season, but they’re all gone from these parts now, in
hopes of saving Linden, I’m told; for you know, I suppose, that he’s
missing, and if he’s deserted, it’s said they are sure to shoot him on
account of the troubles.”

“Three times there have been meetings in that cleft there,” continued
Gerald, pointing towards the Wizzard’s Glen: “it was that was the first
undoing of Miss St. Clare: they tell me she’s all for our being delivered
from our tyrants; and she prophecies so, it would do you good to hear her.
Oh, they move along, a thousand at a time, in a silence would surprise
you—just in the still night, and you can scarce hear them tread as they
pass; but I know well when they’re coming, and there is not one of us who
live here about the town, would betray them, though the reward offered
is very stupendous.”

“But see, here are some of the military coming” ... “That officer is
General Kennedy,” said Lady Avondale, approaching towards him: “he is
not a tyrant at least.” As she said this, she bowed to him, for she
knew him well. He often dined at the Castle. He was saying a few words
to her upon common uninteresting topics, when, a soldier beckoning to
him, two horsemen appeared.—“He’s found,” said one: “there is no doubt
of his guilt; and twenty other names are on the list.” “I trust in God
it is not Linden, of whom you are speaking,” said Calantha. General
Kennedy made no answer: he only bowed to her, as if to excuse himself;
and retired.

Calantha observed a vast number of people assembled on the road, close
to the village. Gerald Mac Allain could scarcely support himself.
She enquired what they were waiting for. “To see the deserters,” they
answered. It was women, children, parents who spoke: some wept aloud;
others stood in silent anguish; many repeated the name of him in whom
they took deepest interest, asking if his was of the number. Linden’s
she heard most frequently. “Ill luck to the monsters!—ill luck to the
men of blood!” was vociferated the whole way she went. “This will kill
the old man,” said Gerald: “it will be his death: he has been all night
fearing it, ever since Linden has been missing.”

The crowd, seeing Calantha, approached in all directions. “Oh beg our
king, your father, to save them,” said one: “Jesus reward you:” and they
knelt and prayed to her. She was too much affected to answer. Some of
the officers approached her, and advised her to retire. “The crowd will
be immense,” they said: “your Ladyship had better not remain to witness
this heartbreaking scene.” “Twenty names are on the list,” continued the
officer, “all deserted, as soon as Linden did. Mercy, in this instance,
will be weakness: too much has already been shewn.”




CHAPTER VII.


Calantha returned home with a heavy heart; and spoke to Lord Avondale and
her father. They both intreated her not to interfere. The moment indeed
was alarming and eventful; whatever measures were necessary, it was not
for her to judge; and while enthusiasm in the cause of liberty beguiled
some, it was, she felt it was, the duty of a woman to try and soften
and conciliate every thing. Linden’s fate was peculiarly unfortunate,
and Lord Avondale generously interested himself for him. Had money
been able to purchase his release, there was no sum he would not have
offered. They heard with the deepest regret, that it was a case where
mercy could not be shewn, without apprehending the most fatal effects
from it. Linden and Seaford had together entered the militia not above
three years back. Linden, an only son, was now in his twentieth year,
and Seaford, was scarce eighteen. Their example was deemed the more
necessary for the general safety, as so many in the same regiment had
deserted upon hearing of their disaffection. In the month of December
last, they had all taken the treasonable oaths; and their rash conduct
and riotous proceedings had already more than once incurred the severity
of the law.

Linden and two others had been accused, and afterwards pardoned on a
former occasion: their names had been likewise erased from the list
of offenders. This second breach of faith was deemed unpardonable.
Mercy, it was supposed, would but appear like weakness and alarm; all
intercessions were utterly fruitless; they were tried, found guilty and
condemned. Linden was so much beloved by his companions, that several
attempts were made, even by his fellow-soldiers and comrades, to rescue
him from the hands of justice; but he disdained to be so released; and
when he heard of the tumult his condemnation had excited, he asked his
captain’s permission to be spared the last bitter conflict of walking
through his own native town. The request was denied him.

On the 18th of May, at the hour of four, the time appointed to assemble,
twenty-three men, who had taken part in the riot, were called out. The
regiment, after this, slowly advanced in solemn procession through the
town, followed by the cavalry, and all the horse artillery. The streets
were thronged—the windows were crowded—not a word was spoken; but the
sobs and cries of friends, parents and old acquaintance, who came out
to take a last farewell, were heard. After passing through Belfont, they
turned to the high road, and continued the march until they reached the
plains above Inis Tara, about two miles from the town.

Linden and Seaford were then brought forward with a strong escort. They
continued silent and firm to the last. Just as the pause was made, before
the command was given that they should kneel, the mother of Linden,
supported by Mac Allain, forced her way through the crowd, and implored
permission to take a last farewell of her son. The officer desired that
she might pass; but the crowd was so great that it was with difficulty
she could arrive at the spot:—when there, she only once shook hands with
the young man, and said she had brought him his father’s blessing:—he
made no answer, but appeared very deeply affected. He had shewn the most
deliberate courage till that hour. It now forsook him, and he trembled
excessively.

“Thank God I am spared this,” said his companion: “I have no mother left.”
The signal was immediately given to fire; and the party prepared to do
their duty. A troop of horse at that moment, in the green uniform of
the national guards, appeared from an ambush, and a desperate struggle
ensued. The mutineers set up a terrible yell during the combat. The
inhabitants, both of the town and country, joined them in every direction.
Lord Avondale and many other officers present came up to the assistance
of General Kennedy’s small force, and soon restored order. The party of
horse were put to flight. The colonel of the regiment immediately ordered
a court-martial; and three prisoners, who were taken with Seaford and
Linden, were executed on the spot.

In the skirmish, the young man who headed the party of horse, and exposed
himself most eagerly to rescue Linden, was wounded in the left arm:
his person was described; the circumstance was mentioned; and a high
reward was offered for his head. It was supposed by many that he was
Lord Glenarvon.

The severity of these proceedings struck an immediate panic throughout the
disaffected. The inhabitants of the town of Belfont arrayed themselves
in black. A long and mournful silence succeeded; and few there were
who penetrated, under the veil of submissive acquiescence, the spirit
of rebellion and vengeance, which was preparing to burst forth. Gerald
Mac Allain, forgetful of his wrongs, appeared at the castle; Lady St.
Clare wrote the most penitent letter to Sir Everard; and with her two
daughters Jessica and Laura, entreated permission to return. Every one
of the tradesmen and farmers of any respectability took their names
from the new club, opposite Sir Everard’s house; and a sort of mournful
tranquillity and terror seemed to reign throughout.

A few days after this melancholy transaction, Linden’s mother died;
and as Calantha was returning from Belfont, she met the crowd who had
followed her to the grave. They all passed her in silence, nor gave her
one salutation, or smile of acknowledgment, as on other occasions; yet
they were her father’s own tenants, and most of their countenances she
remembered from childhood. When she mentioned this circumstance at the
castle, she was informed that Lord Avondale’s having taken an active
part against the party who had come forward to save the deserters, was
the cause of this.

To such heights, at this time, was the spirit of party carried. The whole
kingdom, indeed, was in a state of ferment and disorder. Complaints were
made, redress was claimed, and the people were everywhere mutinous and
discontented. Even the few of their own countrymen, who possessed the
power, refused to attend to the grievances and burthens of which the
nation generally complained, and sold themselves for hire, to the English
government. Numerous absentees had drawn great part of the money out of
the country; oppressive taxes were continued; land was let and sub-let
to bankers and stewards of estates, to the utter ruin of the tenants;
and all this caused the greatest discontent.

Some concessions were now granted in haste—some assurances of relief
made; but the popular spirit of indignation, once excited, was not to be
allayed by the same means which had, perhaps, prevented its first rise.
The time for conciliation was past. A foreign enemy lost no opportunity
of adding to the increasing inward discontent. The friends of government
had the power of the sword and the weight of influence on their side; but
the enemies were more numerous, more desperate, more enthusiastic. The
institution of political clubs, the combination of the United Irishmen,
for the purpose of forwarding a brotherhood of affection, a communion
of rights, amongst those of every different persuasion, even a military
force was now attempted; and the constant cry of all the inhabitants
of either town or country was a total repeal of the penal statutes, the
elective franchise, reform of parliament, and commutation of tythes.

Whilst, however, the more moderate with sincerity imagined, that they were
upholding the cause of liberty and religion; the more violent, who had
emancipated their minds from every restraint of prejudice or principle,
did not conceal that the equalization of property, and the destruction
of rank and titles was their real object. The revolutionary spirit was
fast spreading, and since the appearance of Lord Glenarvon, at Belfont,
the whole of the county around was in a state of actual rebellion.




CHAPTER VIII.


Glenarvon seemed, however, to differ in practice from his principles; for
whilst many of those who had adopted the same language had voluntarily
thrown off their titles, and divided their property amongst their
partizans, he made a formal claim for the titles his grandfather had
forfeited; and though he had received no positive assurance that his
claim would be considered, he called himself by that name alone, and
insisted upon his followers addressing him in no other manner. This
singular personage, of whom so many, for a long period, had heard the
strangest reports, whom many imagined to be dead, and who seemed, whenever
he appeared, to make no light impression upon all those with whom he
conversed, had passed his youth in a foreign country, and had only twice
visited the abode of his ancestors until the present year.

It was amidst the ruins of ancient architecture, and the wild beauties
of Italian scenery, that his splendid genius and uncommon faculties were
first developed. Melancholy, unsocial, without a guide, he had centered
upon himself every strong interest, and every aspiring hope. Dwelling
ever in the brilliant regions of fancy, his soul turned with antipathy
from the ordinary cares of life. He deeply felt the stigma that had been
cast upon his family in the person of his grandfather, who, from the
favourite of a changing prince, had become the secret accomplice of a
bloody conspiracy. The proofs of his guilt were clear; his death was a
death of shame; and the name of traitor was handed down with the coronet
to which his only surviving heir so eagerly aspired.

By his nearest friends he was now called Glenarvon; and so jealous did he
appear of his rank, that he preferred disguise, straits and difficulties,
to a return to his own country without those titles, and that fortune,
which he considered as his due. One object of interest succeeded another;
a life of suspense was preferred to apathy; and the dark counsels of
unprincipled associates, soon led one, already disloyal in heart, to the
very brink of destruction. Flushed with the glow of intemperate heat,
or pale with the weariness of secret woe, he vainly sought in a career
of pleasure, for that happiness which his restless mind prevented him
from enjoying.

Glenarvon had embraced his father’s profession, wherein he had
distinguished himself by his courage and talent; but to obey another was
irksome; and the length of time which must elapse before he could obtain
the command of a ship, soon disgusted him with the service. He plunged,
therefore, into all the tumults of dissipation, to which a return to
Rome and Florence invited him.

He gave up his days and nights to every fierce excess; and soon the high
spirit of genius was darkened, the lofty feelings of honor were debased,
and the frame and character sunk equally dejected under the fatigue of
vigils and revels, in which reason and virtue had no share. Intervals of
gloom succeeded, till, stimulated again, his fallen countenance betrayed
a disappointed heart; and he fled from unjoyous feasts and feverish hopes
to lowliness and sullen despair. He had been wronged, and he knew not
how to pardon: he had been deceived, and he existed henceforward, but to
mislead others. His vengeance was dark and sudden—it was terrible. His
mind, from that hour, turned from the self-approving hope, the peace of
a heart at rest.

The victim of his unfortunate attachment had fallen a prey to the
revengeful jealousy of an incensed husband; but her death was not more
sudden, more secret, than that of the tyrant who had destroyed her. Every
one knew by whose hand the fair and lovely Fiorabella had perished; but
no eye bore witness against the assassin, who, in the depths of night had
immediately revenged her loss. The murderer and the murdered were both
alike involved in the impenetrable veil of mystery. The proud and noble
family who had been injured, had neither the power, nor the inclination
to seek redress. Lord Glenarvon was seen no more at Florence: he had been
the cause of this tragic scene. It afflicted his generous heart when he
reflected upon the misery he had occasioned; but not even his bitterest
enemy could have suspected him of deeper guilt. His youth was untainted
by the suspicion of crime, and the death of Giardini, with greater show
of justice, was affixed to another, and a more dangerous hand.

Fascinated with the romantic splendour of ideal liberty, and intent
upon flying from the tortures of remembrance, which the death of his
mistress, and the unpleasant circumstances attending Giardini’s murder
must naturally excite, he had visited Ireland in the spring of the year
..., and had remained there some months, unknown even to his adherents,
who flocked around him, attracted by his eloquence, and easily won by
his address. One only victim returned with him in his voluntary exile,
from his native land. One only miserable enthusiast devoted herself to
his fortunes, and accompanied him in his flight. O’Kelly, the son of a
tenant of his father’s recognized his youthful lord, and early ingratiated
himself into his favour.

With this sole attendant, and the unhappy girl who had renounced her
country and her virtue for his sake, he departed, nor was seen again at
St. Alvin Priory till the present year.

Indeed the report of his death was so often affirmed, that when he
again presented himself, so changed in manner and in form, before his
adherents, they questioned one with another whether he was in reality
their lord. “I am not what I seem,” he would frequently say; “I am not
him whom you take me for.”

Strange things were rumoured concerning this Glenarvon. There was a man
in his service who had returned with him, who spoke to none, who answered
no enquiries, who had never before been seen with him in his former
visits. It was said that he knew many things if he durst but utter them.
All feared and avoided this man. His name was Macpherson, the same whom
Gondimar had seen in town; but all felt irresistably attracted by his
youthful master. Glenarvon’s projects—his intentions were now but too
generally suspected;—it was a critical moment; and his presence at that
particular time, in Ireland, occasioned many conjectures.




CHAPTER IX.


In this his second visit to his native country, Glenarvon desired his
servant, O’Kelly, to find a person of respectability who would take
charge of a child, then only in his second year. Clare of Costolly was
his name; but whether the boy was the son of Lord Glenarvon, or some
little favourite who, for the moment, had obtained his interest, none
knew, or durst enquire.

Indeed, the impenetrable mystery which surrounded Lord Glenarvon was
involved in a deeper shade of concealment at this time, than at any
former period; for scarce had he set foot in his new habitation, when
a singular and terrific inmate appeared also at the Priory—a maniac!
who was however welcomed with the rest of the strange assemblage, and
a room immediately allotted for his reception. In vain the affrighted
nurse remonstrated; the maniac’s eyes were fixed upon the child, with
frantic wildness; and Glenarvon, deaf to her entreaties, permitted Clare
to attend upon the unwelcome stranger and saw him in his arms without
alarm.

Even in his most dreadful paroxysms, when all others were afraid of
approaching him, Glenarvon would calmly enter into his chamber, would
hear his threats unawed,—would gaze on him, as if it gave him delight
to watch the violence of misguided passion; to hear the hollow laugh of
ideotsy, or fix the convulsed eye of raving insanity.

That which was disgusting or terrific to man’s nature, had no power
over Glenarvon. He had looked upon the dying and the dead; had seen
the tear of agony without emotion; had heard the shriek of despair,
and felt the hot blood as it flowed from the heart of a murdered enemy,
nor turned from the sickening sight—even the storms of nature could not
move Glenarvon. In the dark night, when the tempest raged around and the
stormy ocean beat against the high impending cliffs, he would venture
forth, would listen to the roaring thunder without fear, and watch the
forked lightning as it flashed along the sky.

The rushing winds but seemed to sooth his perturbed spirit; and the calm
of his brow remained unaltered in every changing scene. Yet it was the
calm of hopeless despair, when passion, too violent to shew itself by
common means, concentrates itself at once around the heart, and steels
it against every sentiment of mercy.

Who had dared to enquire of that eye the meaning of its glance? or who
had trusted to the music of that soft voice, when it breathed forth
vows of tenderness and love? or who, believing in the light of life
which beamed upon that countenance, had considered the sportive jests of
fancy—the brilliant sallies of that keen wit as the overflowing testimony
of a heart at rest? None—none believed or trusted in Glenarvon.—Yet
thousands flocked around and flattered him; amidst this band of ruffians,
this lawless unprincipled gang, the recluse of Glanaa—the lovely, but
misguided Elinor was now too often seen. She was the spirit and soul
of the merry party: her wit enlivened; her presence countenanced; her
matchless beauty attracted. Scarce in her sixteenth year, the pride of
her family, the wonder and ornament of the whole country, she forsook
her solitude and hopes of heaven—she left the aunt, who had fostered
and cherished her from childhood, to become avowedly the mistress of
Glenarvon. On horse, or on foot, she accompanied him. In the attire of
a boy she unblushingly followed his steps! his former favourites were
never even named, or alluded to—his present mistress occupied all his
attention.

When St. Clara described the sufferings of her country, every heart
melted to compassion, or burned with indignation; but when her master,
when Glenarvon played upon her harp, or sung the minstrelsy of the
bards of other times, he inspired the passions which he felt, and
inflamed the imagination of his hearers to deeds of madness—to acts of
the most extravagant absurdity. Crowds followed upon his steps; yet it
was melancholy to see them pass—so fair, so young and yet so utterly
hardened and perverted. Who could behold her, and not compassionate her
fate? What was to become of her when Glenarvon had ceased to love; and
did he love?—Never: in the midst of conquests, his heart was desolate;
in the fond embrace of mutual affection, he despised the victim of his
art.

Of all the friends, flatterers and followers, he had gained by his
kindness, and lost by his caprice, not one remained to fill, in his bosom,
that craving void which he himself had made. Wherever he appeared, new
beauty attracted his worship, and yielded to his power; yet he valued
not the transient possession, even whilst smiling upon the credulous
being who had believed in his momentary affection. Even whilst soothing
her with promises and vows, which he meant not for one hour to perform,
he was seeking the means of extricating himself from her power—he was
planning his escape from the thraldom of her charms? Was he generous?
Aye, and prodigal by nature; but there was a part of his character which
ill accorded with the rest: it was a spirit of malignity if wounded,
which never rested till it had satisfied its vengeance. An enemy, he
could have pardoned and have loved; but he knew not how to bear with or
forgive a friend.

His actions appeared the immediate result of impulse; but his passions
were all subject to his controul, and there was a systematic consistency
even in his most irregular conduct. To create illusions, and raise
affection in the breasts of others, has been the delight of many: to
dispel the interest he had created was Glenarvon’s care. Love he had
studied as an art: he knew it in all its shades and gradations; for he
had traced its progress in his own and many another breast. Of knowledge
and wisdom, he had drank deep at the fountain head, nor wanted aught
that could give liveliness and variety to his discourse.

He was, besides, a skilful flatterer, and knew in what weak part, he
best might apply his power. But the sweetness of his praise, could only
be exceeded by the bitterness of his contempt—the venomed lash of his
deadly wit.

That in which Glenarvon most prided himself—that in which he most
excelled, was the art of dissembling. He could turn and twine so near
the truth, with more than Machiavelian subtlety, that none could readily
detect his falsehood; and when he most appeared frank and unguarded, then
he most deceived. Falsehood and craft were stamped upon his countenance,
written upon his brow, marked in his words, and scarce concealed beneath
the winning smile which oftentimes played upon his lips.

“If I could but see him once,” said Lady Augusta, “I should be satisfied;
but to hear his name from morning till night—to have every fault, folly,
nay even crime attributed to him by one party, and every virtue, charm
and fascination given him by the other,—it is enough to distract women
in general, and me in particular. Is there no mercy for curiosity? I
feel I shall do something absurd, extremely absurd, if an interview is
not contrived.” “Nothing can be more easy,” said the Duke: “you shall
dine with him, at the next public day. I have already sent him a card
of invitation.” “Under what title?” “To Captain de Ruthven.” “He will
assuredly not come,” said Lady Trelawney. “That I think probable,” said
the Duke, laughing. “The malicious affirm that his arm is in a sling; and
if so, his appearance just at present would be unwise.” The conversation
soon took another turn; and Lord Avondale entering, informed Calantha
that he had a letter from Sir Richard, and must immediately join him at
Cork.




CHAPTER X.


Admiral Buchanan and Sir Richard Mowbray had, in the month of January,
returned to England, where they had received the thanks of the Lower
House for their distinguished conduct and assistance on the memorable
4th of June. The ships had been now ordered into harbour to undergo some
trifling repairs, and the Admirals had been commanded to take their
station at Cork. The enthusiasm with which the heroes were greeted on
their return, did honour to the feelings of the Irish nation. They were
invited to every house in the neighbourhood; and _fêtes_ and balls were
given to shew them respect. The Duke and Lord Avondale went forward to
receive them.

Commodore Emmet, an old acquaintance who resided at Cork, sent to offer
his house, not only to them, but to the whole party at Castle Delaval;
if they could make up their minds to accept Sir George’s invitation, and
dine on board the Royal William on the 4th of June, in commemoration of
that day and its success. There were few, if any, of those invited who
refused; but none accepted the invitation with so much enthusiasm as
Calantha. The letter from Sir George Buchanan to Lady Margaret, was as
follows:—

          “Cork, June 1st, 1796.

          “My dear Lady Margaret,

     “In answer to a letter which I received this morning, dated May
     29th, ult. I request the honour of your Ladyship’s company on
     board the Royal William, now in harbour at the Cove. The Duke
     and the rest of his family and party have already promised me
     this favour, and I am not prepared to accept from yourself any
     denial on account of those circumstances to which you allude,
     and which, I entreat you sincerely to believe are, on my part,
     utterly forgotten. Let me request you, then, to banish from
     your memory every trifling disagreement, and to meet me, upon
     an occasion so flattering as is the present to my feelings and
     those of our friends, with the good-will and kindness you will
     ever find in the heart of your Ladyship’s most obedient and
     affectionate brother and servant,

          “GEORGE BUCHANAN.”

In consequence of this invitation, Lady Margaret and the rest of the
Duke’s family set out on the morning of the 3rd, and arrived about
the hour of dinner at Commodore Emmet’s—a large brick building about a
quarter of a mile beyond the town of Cork. The Duke and Lord Avondale,
and their loquacious host, had been waiting some time, it appeared, in
much anxiety. The latter gave to each the most cordial welcome; boasted
that he could lodge them all; talked incessantly, as he shewed them to
their apartments; entreated them not to dress, as dinner awaited; and
left them, assuring each that they were the exact image of the Duke,
whom he concluded to be, like the Patriarchs of old, the father of the
whole company. His voice murmured on as he descended the stairs, whilst
Cassandra and Eloise, his daughters, appeared to offer their services
in his place.

The dining-room was small; the guests were numerous; the table was
crowded with huge pieces of meat: the Commodore talked incessantly;
his children, his servants, his brother, seemed all gifted alike with
the same spirit of activity: it was incessant bustle, hurry, noise
and contrivance. Music, cards, and tricks of every kind were displayed
during the evening; and in the morning, long before the sun had arisen,
carpenters, mechanics, ship-builders, and cooks, awoke the guests by
the noise of their respective pursuits.

Sir George Buchanan had sent to request the Duke’s company at an early
hour on the morrow. The day proved fair, the boats were ready, and they
set forth on their expedition in high spirits. Many ships and smaller
vessels were spread over the harbour; and bands of music played as they
passed. The beauty of the cove of Cork, the trees bending to the water
side, the fortress, and the animated picture which a mercantile city
presents,—delighted all. But feelings of enthusiasm kindled, in every
heart, when they approached the Royal William, and beheld its venerable
commander. The sea was rough, and the spray of the waves was at times
blown over the boat. The Miss Emmets thought of their new dresses; Sophia
of danger; and Calantha of the glory of thus proudly riding over the
billowy ocean.

Lady Margaret, though silent, was more deeply agitated:—her mind recurred
in thought to scenes long past. She was now to behold, after a lapse of
many years, her husband’s brother, whom she had treated with the most
marked indignity, and for whom she had vainly attempted to feel contempt.
He had ever conducted himself towards her with courteous, though distant
civility; but had yet shewn the most decided disapprobation of her
conduct. When she had last beheld him, she was in the full splendour
of youth and beauty, surrounded by an admiring world, and triumphant in
the possession of every earthly enjoyment. Time had but little changed
the majesty of her form; but something worse than time had stamped upon
her countenance an expression never to be effaced; while her marked brow
assumed an air of sullen pride and haughty reserve: as she ascended from
the boat into the ship, she gazed upon the long forgotten features of her
brother; and she seemed to be deeply affected. Age had bleached his once
dark locks; but he was still unimpaired in mind and form. He bent lowly
down to receive her: she felt him clasp her to his bosom; and, overcome
by this unexpected kindness, her tears streamed upon his hand:—he, too,
could have wept; but, recovering himself, with a commanding air, he came
forward to receive his other guests.

The ship was in the highest order; the feast prepared was magnificent;
and when the Duke stood up and bowed with grace to drink the Admiral’s
health, the sailors cheered, and the toast was repeated from the heart
by every individual. But he, though greatly affected and pleased at the
homage shewn him, bowed to the Duke, returning him the compliment; and
afterwards, drinking the health of Sir Richard Mowbray, said, that he
owed every thing to his assistance—that, in the glorious action of the
4th, his ship had conferred new honours on the British Navy, and he had
received the commendation of Admiral Howe.

At that name, every individual arose. The name of Howe was repeated
from mouth to mouth with an expression of exalted admiration; his
applauses were spoken by every tongue; and many an eye that had never
shewn weakness, till that moment, filled with tears at the name of their
venerable, their dear commander. Captain Emmet, during this scene, was
employed in eating voraciously of whatever he could lay hands on. Miss
Emmet, who thought it a great honor to converse with a lord, had seated
herself by the side of Lord Avondale, narrating her own adventures,
freely stating her own opinions, and pleased with herself and every
one present; while her father likewise talked at the other end of the
table, and Admiral Buchanan laughed heartily, but good humouredly at
his friend’s oppressive eloquence.

Suddenly Lord Avondale turned to Calantha and asked her if she were
ill? She knew not, she could not define the sort of pain and joy she
felt at that moment. Her eyes had long been fixed upon one who took no
part in this convivial scene—whose pale cheek and brow expressed much
of disappointed hope, or of joyless indifference. He had that youthful,
nay boyish air, which rendered this melancholy the more singular.—It
was not affected, though his manner had in it nothing of nature; but
the affectation was rather that of assumed respect for those he cared
not for, and assumed interest in topics to which he hardly attended,
than the reverse. He even affected gaiety; but the heart’s laugh never
vibrated from his lips; and, if he uttered a sentence, his eye seemed
to despise the being who listened with avidity to his observation. It
was the same,—oh! yes, it was, indeed, the same, whom Calantha had one
moment beheld at St. Alvin Priory.

His face, his features, were the same, it is true; but a deeper shade of
sadness now overspread them; and sorrow and disappointment had changed
the glow of boyish health to a more pallid hue. What! in a month? it
will be said.—A day might, perhaps, have done it. However, in the present
instance, it was not as if some sudden and defined misfortune had opprest
the soul by a single blow: it was rather as if every early hope had
long been blighted; and every aspiring energy had been destroyed. There
was nothing pleasing to gaze upon: it was mournful; but it excited not
sympathy, nor confidence. The arm was in a sling—the left arm. There
could be no doubt that he was the hero who had risked his life to save
young Linden. Was it, indeed, Lord Glenarvon whom Calantha beheld? Yes,
it was himself.—Face to face she stood before him, and gazed with eager
curiosity upon him.

Never did the hand of the Sculptor, in the full power of his art, produce
a form and face more finely wrought, so full of soul, so ever-varying in
expression. Was it possible to behold him unmoved? Oh! was it in woman’s
nature to hear him, and not to cherish every word he uttered? And,
having heard him, was it in the human heart ever again to forget those
accents, which awakened every interest, and quieted every apprehension?
The day, the hour, that very moment of time was marked and destined. It
was Glenarvon—it was that spirit of evil whom she beheld; and her soul
trembled within her, and felt its danger.

Calantha was struck suddenly, forcibly struck; yet the impression made
upon her, was not in Glenarvon’s favour. The eye of the rattle-snake, it
has been said, once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it with terror and
alarm: the bird, thus charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it sings
its last sweet lay; flutters its little pinions in the air; then falls
like a shot before its destroyer, unable to fly from his fascination.
Calantha bowed, therefore with the rest, pierced to the heart at once by
the maddening power that destroys alike the high and low; but she liked
not the wily turn of his eye, the contemptuous sneer of his curling
lip, the soft passionless tones of his voice;—it was not nature, or if
it was nature, not that to which she had been accustomed;—not the open,
artless expression of a guileless heart.

Starting from the kind of dream in which she had for one moment been
wrapped, she now looked around her. The affectation with which she veiled
the interest she felt, is scarce accountable.

Lord Glenarvon was the real object of her thoughts, yet she appeared
alone to be occupied with every other. She laughed with Lord Trelawney;
talked to the Miss Emmets; examined with interest every part of the
ship, carelessly approaching the very edge of it; yet once she met that
glance, which none ever who had seen, could forget, and she stopped
as if rivetted to the earth.—He smiled; but whether it was a smile of
approbation, or of scorn, she could not discover: the upper lip was
curled, as if in derision; but the hand that was stretched out to save
her, as she stood on the brink of the vessel, and the soft silvery voice
which gently admonished her to beware, lest one false step should plunge
her headlong into the gulph below, soon re-assured her.

It was late before the Duke took leave of the admiral, who promised to
breakfast with the Commodore the ensuing day. The guns once more were
fired; the band played as for their arrival; but the music now seemed
to breathe a sadder strain; for it was heard, softened by distance, and
every stroke of the oars rendered the sounds more and more imperfect.
The sun was setting, and cast its lustre on the still waves: even the
loquacity of the Emmets was for a few moments suspended; it was a moment
which impressed the heart with awe; it was a scene never to be forgotten.
The splendour of conquest, the tumult of enthusiasm, the aged veteran,
and more than all, perhaps, that being who seemed early wrecked in the
full tide of misfortune, were all fixed indelibly in Calantha’s memory.
Future times might bring new interests and events; magnificence might
display every wonderful variety; but the impression of that scene never
can be effaced.




CHAPTER XI.


Calantha could not speak one word during the evening; but while Miss
Emmets sung—indifferently, she listened and even wept at what never
before excited or interest, or melancholy. At night, when in sleep, one
image pursued her,—it was all lovely—all bright: it seemed to be clothed
in the white garments of an angel; it was too resplendent for eyes to
gaze on:—she awoke. Lord Avondale slept in the inner room; she arose and
looked upon him, whilst he reposed. How long, how fondly she had loved
those features—that form. What grace, what majesty, what beauty was
there! But when those eyes awake, she said, they will not look for me.
That heart is at peace, and thou canst sleep, Henry, and my sorrows are
not known or heeded by thee. Happy Avondale:—Miserable, guilty Calantha!

At an early hour the ensuing day, Captain Emmet proposed a drive to
Donallan Park, which he said was a fair domain, fully deserving the
attention of the Duke of Altamonte. Cassandra and Heloisa clamorously
seconded this proposal. In this energetic family, Mrs. Emmet alone gave
the eye and the ear a little repose. Stretched upon a couch in languid
listless inactivity, she gazed upon the bustling scene before her, as if
entirely unconnected with it; nor seemed to know of greater suffering
than when called from her reveries, by the acute voices of her family,
to the bustle and hurry of common life. To the question of whether she
would accompany them to Donallan Park, she answered faintly, that she
would not go. A fat and friendly lieutenant, who fondly hung over her,
urged her to relent, and with some difficulty, at length, persuaded her
to do so.

Every one appeared much pleased with their excursion, or possibly with
some incident during their drive, which had made any excursion agreeable.
Of Donallan Park, however, Calantha remembered little: this alone, she
noted, that as they walked through a shrubbery, Lord Glenarvon suddenly
disengaging himself from Miss Emmet, who had monopolized his arm, gathered
a rose—the only rose in bloom (it being early in the summer) and turning
back, offered it to Calantha. She felt confused—flattered perhaps; but
if she were flattered by his giving it to her, she had reason to be
mortified by the remark which accompanied the gift. “I offer it to you,”
he said, “because the rose at this season is rare, and all that is new
or rare has for a moment, I believe, some value in your estimation.”
She understood his meaning: her eye had been fixed upon him with more
than common interest; and all that others said and Miss Emmet affected,
he thought, perhaps, that she could feel. There was no proof she gave
of this, more unequivocal, than her silence. Her spirits were gone; a
strange fear of offending had come upon her; and when Lady Trelawney
rallied her for this change, “I am not well,” she said; “I wish I had
never come to Cork.”

On the ensuing morning, they returned to Castle Delaval. Previous to
their departure, Admiral Buchanan had a long interview with Lady Margaret,
during which time Lord Glenarvon walked along the beach with Calantha and
Sophia. “Shall you be at Belfont again this year?” said Miss Seymour. “I
shall be at Castle Delaval in a few days,” he answered, smiling rather
archly at Calantha, she knew not wherefore. But she turned coldly from
him, as if fearing to meet his eyes. Yet not so was it her custom to
behave towards those whom she sought to please, and what woman upon
earth exists, who had not wished to please Glenarvon? Possibly she felt
offended at what he had said when giving her the rose in Donallan’s
gardens; or it may be that her mind, hitherto so enthusiastic, so readily
attracted, was grown callous and indifferent, and felt not those charms
and the splendour of those talents which dazzled and misled every other
heart.

Yet is it unflattering to fly, to feel embarrassed, to scarcely dare
to look upon the person who addresses us? Is this so very marked a sign
of indifference? It is not probable that Lord Glenarvon thought so. He
appeared not to hate the being who was thus confused in his presence,
but to think that he felt what he inspired were presumption. With all
the wild eagerness of enthusiasm, her infatuated spirit felt what, with
all the art of well dissembled vanity, he feigned. She quitted him with
a strong feeling of interest. She, however, first heard him accept her
father’s invitation, and agree to accompany Sir George Buchanan in his
promised visit to Castle Delaval.




CHAPTER XII.


On their return thither, they found the guests they had left in a
lamentable state of dullness. Lord Glenarvon was the first subject
of enquiry. Is he arrived?—have you seen him?—do you like him?—were
repeated on all sides. “Who?—who?” “There can be but one—Lord Glenarvon!”
“We all like him quite sufficiently be assured of that,” said Sophia,
glancing her eye somewhat sarcastically upon Calantha. “He is a very
strange personage,” said Lady Margaret. “My curiosity to see him had
been highly excited: I am now perfectly satisfied. He certainly has a
slight resemblance to his mother.” “He has the same winning smile,” said
Gondimar; “but there all comparison ceases.” “What says my Calantha?” said
Lady Mandeville, “does her silence denote praise?” “Oh! the greatest,”
she replied in haste, “I hope, my dear girls,” said Mrs. Seymour, rather
seriously addressing her daughters, “that you will neither of you form
any very marked intimacy with a person of so singular a character as is
this young lord. I was rather sorry when, by your letter, I found he
was invited here.” “Oh, there is no need of caution for us!” replied
Lady Trelawny, laughing: “perhaps others may need these counsels, but
not we: we are safe enough; are we not, Sophia?”

Lord Glenarvon, the object of discussion, soon appeared at the castle,
to silence both praise and censure. There was a studied courtesy in his
manner—a proud humility, mingled with a certain cold reserve, which amazed
and repressed the enthusiasm his youth and misfortunes had excited. The
end was as usual:—all were immediately won by this unexpected manner:—some
more, some less, and Mrs. Seymour the last. But, to Calantha’s infinite
amusement, she heard her speaking in his defence a few hours after his
arrival; and the person she addressed, upon this occasion, was Sir Everard
St. Clare, who vehemently asseverated, though only in a whisper, that
the Duke must be mad to permit such a person to remain at the castle in
times like the present.

Sir Everard then stated, that Lady St. Clare and her daughters were
returned to Belfont, and so eager to be again received into society,
that if they dared hope that any of the Duke’s family would accept their
invitation, they intended to give a concert on the night of the great
illumination for the Admiral’s arrival at Belfont. Mrs. Seymour smiled
in scorn; but Lady Margaret kindly promised to go there; and as soon as
Mrs. Seymour heard that it was merely in a political light they were
to countenance them, she was satisfied. For the present terror of all
the party, on the government side, was lest the rebels should get the
better, and murder them for their tenets.

I will not say what Lord Glenarvon said to Calantha very shortly after
his arrival at the castle; it was not of a nature to repeat; it was made
up of a thousand nothings; yet they were so different from what others
had said: it shewed her a mark of preference; at least it seemed so; but
it was not a preference that could alarm the most wary, or offend the
most scrupulous. Such as it was, however, it flattered and it pleased;
it gave a new interest to her life, and obliterated from her memory
every long cherished feeling of bitterness or regret.

It chanced one day, that, when seated at dinner, by Mrs. Seymour, to
whom he paid no little attention, he enquired of her concerning Mac
Allain, who waited upon that occasion behind the Duke’s chair. “Why looks
he so miserable?” he said. “Why turn his eyes so incessantly towards
Mr. Buchanan?” Mrs. Seymour hesitated, as if fearing to allude to a
transaction which she never thought of without horror and dislike; but
she no sooner pronounced the name of Mac Allain, than Lord Glenarvon’s
countenance altered: he started! and, watching Buchanan with a look of
loathing antipathy, exhibited such a variety of malevolent passions, in
the space of a few moments, that Sophia, who sat near Calantha on the
opposite side of the table, asked her, as she read countenances so well,
to tell her what her new friend’s expressed at that instant. She raised
her eyes; but met Glenarvon’s. He saw; he was the object of attention:
he smiled; and, the sweetness of that smile alone being considered: “I
know not,” she said, in some confusion; “but this I believe, that the
hand of Heaven never impressed on man a countenance so beautiful, so
glorious!” “Calantha!” said Sophia, looking at her. Calantha sighed.
“What is it even so?—Heaven defend us!” somewhat confused. Calantha
turned to the Count Gondimar; and, talking with affected spirits, soon
appeared to have forgotten both the smile and the sigh.

“You once, when in London, gave me permission to warn you,” said the
Count, who observed every thing that was passing, “when I thought you in
danger. Now,” continued he,—“now is the moment. It was not when dancing
with Mr. Clarendon, or playing the coquette with Buchanan and the Duke
of Myrtlegrove, that I trembled for you. Lord Avondale was still dear,
even in those days—but now—O! the inconstancy of the human heart. You,
even you, are changed.” “Not me,” she replied; “but alas! that time is
arrived which you predicted: he cares no more for me; but I can never
forget him. See,” she continued, “how utterly indifferent he appears,
yet I would die for him.” “That will be of little service: you will
prove his ruin and misery. Mark my words, Lady Avondale; and, when too
late, remember what I have dared to say!”

“Every woman complains,” she continued, smiling, “therefore, let me prove
an exception. I have no reproaches to make Lord Avondale; and, except in
your suspicious mind, there is no evil to apprehend.” “Tell me, candidly;
if the trial were made, if the hour of temptation were to come, could
you, do you think—could you have strength and courage to resist it?”
“Could I! Can you ask! It will not be accounted presumption to affirm,
that I feel secure. But possibly this arises from my conviction, that
there can be no temptation for me: I love my husband: there is no merit
then in being true to what we love.”

As she yet spoke, Zerbellini approached and asked her, in Italian, to
read a note Lord Glenarvon had sent her. It was written with a pencil,
and contained but few words: it requested her to speak no more with the
Count Gondimar. He saw the manner in which the paper was delivered, and
guessed from whom it came. “I told you so,” he cried. “Alas! shall I
affect to offer you advice, when so many nearer and dearer friends are
silent—shall I pretend to greater wisdom—greater penetration? Is it not
inordinate vanity to hope, that any thing I can suggest will be of use?”
“Speak,” said Calantha; for the subject was interesting to her; “at all
events I shall not be offended.” “The serpent that is cherished in the
bosom,” said Gondimar, fiercely, “will bite with deadly venom—the flame
that brightly dazzles the little wanton butterfly, will destroy it. The
heart of a libertine is iron: it softens when heated with the fires of
lust; but it is cold and hard in itself. The whirlwinds of passions are
strong and irresistible; but when they subside, the calm of insensibility
will succeed. Remember the friend of thy youth; though he appear unkind,
his seeming neglect is better worth than the vows and adulation of all
beside. Oh! Lady Avondale, let one that is lovely, and blest as you are,
continue chaste even in thought.”

Calantha looked up, and met Gondimar’s eyes: the fire in them convinced
her that love alone dictated this sage advice; and none ever can conceive
how much that feeling had been encreased by thus seeing a rival before
him, whom he could not hope to render odious or ridiculous.

That day Lord Glenarvon had passed at the castle. On the following, he
took his leave. The Duke appeared desirous of conciliating him; Lady
Margaret was more than ordinarily brilliant and agreeable; Mrs. Seymour
relaxed something of her frigidity; and the rest of the ladies were
enthusiastic in their admiration.

Calantha spoke much and often apart with Gondimar. Every thought of
her heart seemed concentrated on the sudden in one dark interest; yet
it was not love that she felt: it could not be. By day, by night, one
image pursued her; yet to save, to reclaim, to lead back from crime
to virtue—from misery to peace, was, as she then apprehended, her sole
desire. Were not all around alike infatuated? Was not the idol of her
fancy a being to whom all alike paid the insense of flattery—the most
lowly—the most abject?

“Let them pursue,” she cried; “let them follow after, and be favoured
in turn. I alone, self-exiled, will fly, will hide myself beneath every
concealment. He shall hear their words, and believe in their adulation;
but never, whilst existence is allowed me, shall he know the interest
with which he has inspired me.” Resolved upon this, and dreading her own
thoughts, she danced, she rode, she sang, she talked to every one, sought
every amusement, and seemed alone to dread one instant of repose—one
single moment of time devoted to self examination and reflection.
Ceaseless hurry, joyless mirth, endless desire of amusement varied the
days as they flitted by. “Oh, pause to reflect!” said Gondimar. But it
was vain: new scenes of interest succeeded each other; till suddenly
she started as if shuddering on the very edge of perdition, in the dark
labyrinth of sin—on the fathomless chasm which opened before her feet.




CHAPTER XIII.


Lord Glenarvon was now considered as a favoured guest at the castle.
He came—he went, as it suited his convenience or his humour.—But every
time he appeared, the secret interest he had excited, was strengthened;
and every time he went, he left apparently deeper marks of regret.

Sir Richard Mowbrey and Sir George Buchanan, were at this time also at
the castle. Sir Everard, forgetful of his wrongs, and his Lady of her
projects for the emancipation of her countrymen, kept open house during
their stay; Lady St. Clare, in pursuance of her plan of restoring herself
to society, assisted herself with her daughters, at a concert in the great
assembly rooms at Belfont, given in honour of the Admiral’s arrival. On
this eventful evening, the whole party at the castle resolved to make a
most wonderful _éclat_, by their brilliant appearance and condescension.
The Duke addressed himself to every individual with his accustomed
affability. Lord Avondale attended solely to his Uncle, who amused
himself by walking up and down that part of the room which was prepared
for the dancers, bowing to all, shaking hands with all, and receiving
those compliments which his brave conduct deserved. Pale, trembling, and
scarcely heeding the scene, Calantha watched with breathless anxiety for
one alone; and that one, for what cause she knew not, spoke not to her.

“Where is he?”—“which is he?”—Was whispered now from mouth to mouth.
The Admiral, the Duke, the concert were forgotten. One object appeared
suddenly to engage the most boundless curiosity. “Is that really Lord
Glenarvon?” Said a pretty little woman pushing her way towards him. “Oh
let me but have the happiness of speaking one word to him:—let me but say,
when I return to my home, that I have seen him, and I shall be overjoyed.”
Calantha made room for the enthusiastic Lady:—she approached—she offered
her hand to the deliverer of his Country as she called him:—he accepted it
with grace, but some embarrassment. The rush was then general: everyone
would see—would speak to their Lord—their King; and the fashionable
reserve which affectation had, for a moment, taught the good people of
Belfont to assume, soon vanished, when nature spoke in their bosoms: so
that had not the performers of the grand _concerto_ called to order, Lord
Glenarvon had been absolutely obliged to make his retreat. The mystery in
which his fate appeared involved, his youth, his misfortunes, his brave
conduct, and perhaps even his errors awakened this interest in such as
beheld him. But he turned from the gaze of strangers with bitterness.

“Will you allow me to seat myself near you?” he said, approaching
Calantha’s chair. “Can you ask?” “Without asking, I would not. You may
possibly stay till late: I shall go early. My only inducement in coming
here was you.” “Was me! Do not say, what I am well assured is not true.”
“I never say what I do not feel. Your presence here alone makes me endure
all this fulsome flattery, noise, display. If you dance—that is, when
you dance, I shall retire.”

The concert now began with frequent bursts of applause. All were
silent:—suddenly a general murmur proclaimed some new and unexpected
event:—a young performer appeared. Was it a boy! Such grace—such
beauty, soon betrayed her: it was Miss St. Clare. She could not hope
for admittance in her own character; yet, under a feigned name, she had
promised to assist at the performance; and the known popularity of her
songs, and the superior sweetness of her voice, prevented the professors
from enquiring too much into the propriety of such an arrangement.

Messieurs John Maclane and Creighton had just been singing in Italian,
an opera buffa. The noise they had made was such, that even the most
courteous had been much discountenanced. A moment’s pause ensued; when,
without one blush of modest diffidence, but, on the contrary, with an
air of dauntless and even contemptuous effrontery, the youthful performer
seized her harp—Glenarvon’s harp—and singing, whilst her dark brilliant
eyes were fixed upon him alone, she gave vent to the emotions of her
own bosom, and drew tears of sympathy from many another. The words were
evidently made at the moment; and breathed from the heart. She studied
not the composition, but the air was popular, and for that cause it had
effect.

The admiration for the young enthusiast was checked by the extreme
disgust her shameless ill conduct had occasioned. The tears, too, of Sir
Everard, who was present, and audibly called upon his cruel ungrateful
niece, extorted a stronger feeling of sympathy than her lawless and guilty
love. She retired the moment she had ended her song, and the commotion
her presence had excited subsided with her departure.

The heiress of Delaval, decked in splendid jewels, had not lost by
comparison with the deserted Elinor. She was the reigning favourite of
the moment: every one observed it, and smiled upon her the more on that
account. To be the favourite of the favoured was too much. The adulation
paid to her during the evening; and the caresses lavished upon her had
possibly turned a wiser head than her’s; but alas! a deeper interest
employed her thoughts, and Glenarvon’s attention was her sole object.

Calantha had felt agitated and serious during Miss St. Clare’s
performance. Lord Glenarvon had conversed with his customary ease; yet
something had wounded her. Perhaps she saw, in the gaze of strangers,
that this extreme and sudden intimacy was observed; or possibly her heart
reproached her. She felt that not vanity alone, nor even enthusiasm,
was the cause of her present emotion. She knew not, nor could imagine
the cause; but, with seeming inconsistency, after refusing positively
to dance, she sent for Buchanan and joined in that delectable amusement;
and, as if the desire of exercise had superseded every other, she danced
on with an energy and perseverance, which excited the warmest approbation
in all. “What spirits Lady Avondale has!” said one. “How charming she
is!” cried another. She herself only sighed.

“Have you ever read a tragedy of Ford’s?” whispered Lady Augusta to
Calantha, as soon as she had ceased to exhibit—“a tragedy entitled _The
Broken Heart_.” “No,” she replied, half vexed, half offended. “At this
moment you put me vastly in mind of it. You look most woefully. Come,
tell me truly, is not your heart in torture? and, like your namesake
Calantha, while lightly dancing the gayest in the ring, has not the shaft
already been struck, and shall you not die ere you attain the goal?”
She indeed felt nearly ready to do so; and fanning herself excessively,
declared, that it was dreadfully hot—that she should absolutely expire
of the heat: yet while talking and laughing with those who surrounded
her, her eye looked cautiously round, eager to behold the resentment and
expected frowns of him whom she had sought to offend; but there was no
frown on Lord Glenarvon’s brow—no look of resentment.

“And are you happy?” he said, approaching her with gentleness. “Perhaps
so, since some can rejoice in the sufferings of others. Yet I forgive
you, because I know you are not yourself. I see you are acting from
pique; but you have no cause; for did you know my heart, and could you
feel what it suffers on your account, your doubts would give way to far
more alarming suspicions.” He paused, for she turned abruptly from him.
“Dance on then, Lady Avondale,” he continued, “the admiration of those
for whose society you were formed—the easy prey of every coxcomb to whom
that ready hand is so continually offered, and which I have never once
dared to approach. Such is the respect which will ever be shewn to the
object of real admiration, interest and regard, although that object
seems willing to forget that it is her due. But,” added he, assuming that
air of gaiety he had one moment laid aside, “I detain you, do I not? See
Colonel Donallan and the Italian Count await you.” “You mistake me,” she
said gravely; “I could not presume to imagine that my dancing would be
heeded by you:—I could have no motive——” “None but the dear delight of
tormenting,” said he, “which gave a surprising elasticity to your step,
I can assure you. Indubitably had not that impulse assisted, you could
not thus have excelled yourself.” “If you knew,” she said, “what I suffer
at this moment you would spare me. Why do you deride me?” “Because, oh
Lady Avondale, I dare not—I cannot speak to you more seriously. I feel
that I have no right—no claim on you. I dread offending; but to-morrow
I shall expiate all; for I leave you to-morrow.—Yes, it must be so. I
am going from Ireland. Indeed I was going before I had the misery of
believing that I should leave any thing in it I could ever regret.” What
Calantha felt, when he said this, cannot be described.

“Will you dance the two next dances with me?” said Colonel Donallan, now
approaching. “I am tired: will you excuse me? I believe our carriages
are ordered.” “Oh surely you will not go away before supper.” “Ask
Lady Mandeville what she means to do.” “Lady Trelawney and Miss Seymour
stay.” “Then perhaps I shall.” The Colonel bowed and retired.—“Give me
the rose you wear,” said Glenarvon in a low voice, “in return for the
one I presented you at Donallan Park.” “Must I?” “You must,” said he,
smiling. With some hesitation, she obeyed; yet she looked around in
hopes no vigilant eye might observe her. She took it from her bosom,
and gave it tremblingly into his hands. A large pier glass reflected
the scene to the whole company. The rose thus given, was received with
transport. It said more, thus offered, than a thousand words:—it was
taken and pressed to a lover’s lips, till all its blushing beauties were
gone, then it was cast down on the earth to be trampled upon by many.
And had Calantha wished it, she might have read in the history of the
flower, the fate that ever attends on guilty love.

And was it love she felt so soon—so strongly!—It is not possible.
Alarmed, grieved, flattered at his altered manner, she turned aside to
conceal the violent, the undefinable emotions, to which she had become
a prey:—a dream of ecstasy for one moment fluttered in her heart; but
the recollection of Lord Avondale recurring, she started with horror
from herself—from him; and, abruptly taking leave, retired.

“Are you going?” said Glenarvon. “I am ill,” she answered. “Will you
suffer me to accompany you?” he said, as he assisted her into her
carriage; “or possibly it is not the custom in this country:—you mistrust
me—you think it wrong.”—“No,” she answered with embarrassment; and he
seated himself by her side. The distance to the castle was short. Lord
Glenarvon was more respectful, more reserved, more silent than before
he had entered the carriage. On quitting it alone, he pressed her hand
to his heart, and bade her feel for the agony she had implanted there.
None, perhaps, ever before felt what she did at this instant....




CHAPTER XIV.


If any indifferent person approach us, it either is disagreeable, or at
least unimportant; but when it is a person we love, it thrills through
the heart, and we are unable to speak or to think. Could she have
imagined, that Lord Glenarvon felt for her, she had been lost. But that
was impossible; and yet his manner;—it was so marked, there could be
no doubt. She was inexperienced, we may add, innocent; though no doubt
sufficiently prepared to become every thing that was the reverse. Yet
in a moment she felt her own danger, and resolved to guard against it.
How then can so many affirm, when they know that they are loved, that
it is a mere harmless friendship! how can they, in palliation of their
errors, bring forward the perpetually repeated excuse, that they were
beguiled! The heart that is chaste and pure will shrink the soonest
from the very feeling that would pollute it:—in vain it would attempt
to deceive itself: the very moment we love, or are loved, something
within us points out the danger:—even when we fly from him, to whom
we could attach ourselves, we feel a certain embarrassment—an emotion,
which is not to be mistaken; and, in a lover’s looks, are there not a
thousand assurances and confessions which no denial of words can affect
to disguise?

Lord Glenarvon had denied to Calantha the possibility of his ever again
feeling attachment. This had not deceived her; but she was herself too
deeply and suddenly struck to the heart to venture to hope for a return.
Besides, she did not think of this as possible:—he seemed to her so
far above her—so far above everything. She considered him as entirely
different from all others; and, if not superior, at least dissimilar
and consequently not to be judged of by the same criterion.

It is difficult to explain Calantha’s peculiar situation with respect
to Lord Avondale. Yet it is necessary briefly to state in what manner
they were situated at this particular period; for otherwise, all that is
related must appear like a mere fable, improbable and false. They were
dearer to each other perhaps, than any two who had been so long united in
marriage. They loved each other with more passion, more enthusiasm than
is often retained; but they were, from a thousand circumstances, utterly
estranged at this time; and that apparently by mutual consent—like two
violent spirits which had fretted and chafed and opposed each other,
till both were sore and irritated.

In the course of years, they had said every thing that was most galling
and bitter; and though the ardent attachment they really felt, had
ever followed those momentary bursts of fury, the veil had been torn
aside—that courtesy, which none should ever suffer themselves to forget,
had been broken through, and they had yielded too frequently to the
sudden impulse of passion, ever to feel secure that the ensuing moment
might not produce a scene of discord.

A calm, a deliberate tyrant, had vanquished Calantha; a violent one
could not. When provoked, Lord Avondale was too severe; and when he saw
her miserable and oppressed, it gave him more suffering than if he had
himself been subdued. There are few spirits which cannot be overcome
if dexterously attacked; but with the fierce and daring, force and
violence will generally be found useless. It should be remembered that,
like madness, these disturbed characters see not things as they are;
and, like martyrs and fanatics, they attach a degree of glory to every
privation and punishment in the noble cause of opposition to what they
conceive is unjust authority. Such a character is open and guileless;
but unhappily, the very circumstance that makes it sincere, renders it
also, if misturned, desperate and hardened.

During the first years of their marriage, these tumultuous scenes but
strengthened the attachment they felt for each other; but when Lord
Avondale’s profession absorbed his mind, he dreaded a recurrence of what
had once so fully engrossed his thoughts. He left Calantha, therefore,
to the guidance of that will, which she had so long and pertinaciously
indulged. Absent, pre-occupied, he saw not, he heard not, the misuse
she made of her entire liberty. Some trifle, perhaps, at times, reached
his ear; a scene of discord ensued; much bitterness on both sides
followed: and the conviction that they no longer loved each other, added
considerably to the violence of recrimination. They knew not how deeply
rooted affection such as they had once felt, must ever be—how the very
ties that compelled them to belong to each other, strengthened, in fact,
the attachment which inclination and love had first inspired; but, with
all the petulance and violence of character natural to each, they fled
estranged and offended from each other’s society.

Lord Avondale sought, in an active and manly profession, for some
newer interest, in which every feeling of ambition could have part; and
she, surrendering her soul to the illusive dream of a mad and guilty
attachment, boasted that she had found again the happiness she had lost;
and contrasted even the indifference of her husband, to the ardour, the
devotion, the refined attention of a newly acquired friend.




CHAPTER XV.


O better had it been to die than to see and hear Glenarvon. When he
smiled, it was like the light radiance of heaven; and when he spoke, his
voice was more soothing in its sweetness than music. He was so gentle
in his manners, that it was in vain even to affect to be offended; and,
though he said he never again could love, he would describe how some had
died, and others maddened, under the power of that fierce passion—how
every tie that binds us, and every principle and law, must be broken
through, as secondary considerations, by its victims:—he would speak
home to the heart; for he knew it in all its turnings and windings; and,
at his will, he could rouze or tame the varying passions of those over
whom he sought to exercise dominion. Yet, when by every art and talent
he had raised the scorching flames of love, tearing himself from his
victim, he would leave her, then weep for the agony of grief by which
he saw her destroyed.

Had he betrayed in his manner to Calantha that freedom, that familiarity
so offensive in men, but yet so frequent amongst them, she would yet
have shuddered. But what was she to fly? Not from the gross adulation,
or the easy flippant protestations to which all women are soon or late
accustomed; but from a respect, at once refined and flattering—an
attention devoted even to her least wishes, yet without appearing
subservient—a gentleness and sweetness, as rare as they were fascinating;
and these combined with all the powers of imagination, vigour of
intellect, and brilliancy of wit, which none ever before possessed in
so eminent a degree; and none ever since have even presumed to rival.
Could she fly from a being unlike all others—sought for by every one,
yet, by his own confession, wholly and entirely devoted to herself.

How cold, compared with Glenarvon was the regard her family and friends
affected! Was it confidence in her honour, or indifference? Lord Glenarvon
asked Calantha repeatedly, which it most resembled—he appealed to her
vanity even, whether strong affection could thus neglect and leave the
object of its solicitude? Yet, had she done nothing to chill a husband
and parent’s affection—had she not herself lessened the regard they had
so faithfully cherished?

Calantha thought she had sufficient honour and spirit to tell her husband
at once the danger to which she was exposed; but when she considered
more seriously her situation, it appeared to her almost ridiculous to
fancy that it was so imminent. If upon some occasion, Lord Glenarvon’s
manner was ardent, the ensuing morning she found him cold, distant and
pre-occupied, and she felt ashamed of the weakness which for one moment
could have made her imagine she was the object of his thoughts. Indeed,
he often took an opportunity of stating, generally, that he never could
feel either interest or love for any thing on earth; that once he had
felt too deeply and had suffered bitterly from it; and that now his sole
regret was in the certainty that he never again could be so deceived.

He spoke with decision of leaving Ireland, and more than once repeated,
emphatically to the Duke, “I shall never forget the kindness which
prompted you to seek me out, when under very unpleasant circumstances; I
shall immediately withdraw my name from the club; my sentiments I cannot
change: but you have already convinced me of the folly of spreading them
amongst the unenlightened multitude.”

Sir Everard, who was present, lifted up his hands at such discourse. “He
is a convert of mine, I verily believe,” he cried; “and Elinor”—“Miss
St. Clare,” whispered Glenarvon, turning to the Doctor, “has long been
admonished by me, to return to an indulgent uncle, and throw herself
on your mercy.” “My mercy!” said Sir Everard, bursting into tears,—“my
gratitude. Oh! my child, my darling.” “And believe me,” continued Lord
Glenarvon, with an air which seemed haughtily to claim belief, “I return
her as innocent as she came to me. Her imagination may have bewildered
and beguiled her; but her principles are uncorrupted.” “Generous young
nobleman!” exclaimed Sir Everard, ready to kneel before him—“noble,
mighty, grand young gentleman! wonder of our age!” Lord Glenarvon
literally smiled through his tears; for the ridicule of Sir Everard did
not prevent his excellent and warm feelings from affecting those who
knew him well. “And will she return to her poor uncle?” “I know not,”
said Lord Glenarvon, gravely: “I fear not; but I have even implored her
to do so.” “Oh, if you fail who are so fair and so persuasive, who can
hope to move her?” “She may hear a parent’s voice,” said Glenarvon, “even
though deaf to a lover’s prayer.” “And are you indeed a lover to my poor
deluded Elinor?” “I was,” said Lord Glenarvon, proudly; “but her strange
conduct, and stubborn spirit have most effectually cured me; and I must
own, Sir Everard, I do not think I ever again can even affect a feeling
of that sort: after all, it is a useless way of passing life.” “You are
right,” said the Doctor; “quite right; and it injures the health; there
is nothing creates bile, and hurts the constitution more, than suspense
and fretting:—I know it by myself.”

They were standing in the library during this discourse. Lady Avondale
entered now; Lord Glenarvon approached her. They were for a few moments
alone:—he lent over her; she held a book in her hand; he read a few
lines: it is not possible to describe how well he read them. The poetry he
read was beautiful as his own: it affected him. He read more; he became
animated; Calantha looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he forgot the
poem; his hand touched hers, as he replaced the book before her; she drew
away her hand; he took it and put it to his lips. “Pardon me,” he said,
“I am miserable: but I will never injure you. Fly me, Lady Avondale:
I deserve not either interest or regard; and to look upon me is in
itself pollution to one like you.” He then said a few words expressive
of his admiration for her husband:—“He is as superior to me,” he said,
“as Hyperion to a satyr:—and you love him, do you not?” continued he,
smiling. “Can you ask?” “He seems most attached, too, to you.” “Far,
far more than I deserve.”

“I can never love again,” said Glenarvon, still holding her hand: “never.
There will be no danger in my friendship,” he said after a moment’s
thought: “none; for I am cold as the grave—as death; and all here,” he
said pressing her hand upon his heart, “is chilled, lost, absorbed. They
will speak ill of me,” he continued rather mournfully; “and you will
learn to hate me.” “I! never, never. I will defend you, if abused; I
will hate those who hate you; I—” He smiled: “How infatuated you are,”
he said, “poor little thing that seeks to destroy itself. Have you not
then heard what I have done?” “I have heard much” said Calantha, “but
I know—I feel it is false.” “It is all too true,” said Lord Glenarvon
carelessly:—“all quite true; and there is much worse yet:”—“But it is
no matter,” he continued; “the never dying worm feeds upon my heart: I
am like death, Lady Avondale; and all beneath is seared.”

Whilst the conscience wakes, and the blush of confused and trembling guilt
yet varies the complexion, the sin is not of long standing, or of deep
root; but when the mind seeks to disguise from itself its danger,—when,
playing upon the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly deludes
itself, and appears hard and callous to every admonitory caution, then is
the moment for alarm; and that moment now appeared to realize Calantha’s
fears.

Attacked with some asperity by her numerous friends, for her imprudent
conduct, she now boldly avowed her friendship for Glenarvon, and
disclaimed the possibility of its exceeding the bounds which the strictest
propriety had rendered necessary. She even gloried in his attachment;
and said that there was not one of those who were admonishing her to
beware who would not readily, nay, even gladly fill her place. Calantha
had seen their letters to him: she had marked their advances—too fatal
symptom of the maddening disease! she really imagined that all others
like herself, were enamoured with the same idol; and in this instance
she was right:—the infatuation was general: he was termed the leader of
the people, the liberator of his country, the defender of the rights
of Ireland. If he wandered forth through Belfont, he was followed by
admiring crowds; and whilst he affected to disdain the transient homage,
she could not but perceive that he lost no opportunity by every petty
artifice of encreasing the illusion.




CHAPTER XVI.


At this crisis the whole party at the castle were disturbed by the
unexpected arrival of the Princess of Madagascar at Dublin. A small fleet
had been seen approaching the coast: it was rumoured that the French
in open boats were preparing to invade Ireland; but it proved, though
it may sound rather ludicrous to say so, only the great Nabob and the
Princess of Madagascar. Their immense retinue and baggage, which the
common people took for the heavy artillery, arrived without incident
or accident at Belfont; and the couriers having prepared the Duke for
the reception of his illustrious guest, they awaited her arrival with
considerable impatience.

During the bustle and noise this little event occasioned, Lord Glenarvon
came to Lady Avondale and whispered in her ear, “I shall walk this
evening: contrive to do so as I have something of importance to tell
you.” As he spoke, he pretended to pick up a ring. “Is this yours?” he
said. “No.” “It is,” he whispered; and placed it himself upon her finger.
It was an emerald with an harp engraved upon it—the armorial bearing
of Ireland: “let us be firm and united,” was written under. “I mean it
merely politically,” he said smiling. “Even were you a Clarissa, you
need not be alarmed: I am no Lovelace, I promise you.”

The princess was now announced, fifty-three attendants and twenty-four
domestic friends, were her small and concientious establishment, besides
a cook, confectioner and laundress, to the total discomfiture of Irish
hospitality. The high priest in the dress of the greek church, ever
attended her, and eagerly sought to gain adherents to the only true
established church, at whatever house he occasionally rested. The
simplicity of Hoiouskim, his eagerness, his abilities and information,
added an agreeable variety at Castle Delaval.

But neither the presence of the Nabob nor the caresses of the princess
who cast many a gentle glance upon Glenarvon could for one moment detach
his thoughts from Calantha. On the contrary he answered her with distant
reserve and appeared eager to shew to every one the marked distinction
he felt for the woman he loved. Oh! he is really sincere, she thought
as he left them all to attend to her. “I amuse—I soothe him,” the hope
rendered her blest and she felt indifferent to every consequence.

“You are not as pretty as Sophia,” said Glenarvon looking on her; “but
I admire you more. Your errors are such as you have frankly confessed;
but you have others which you wished me not to perceive. Few have so
many faults, yet how is it that you have wound yourself already around
this cold, this selfish heart, which had resolved never again to admit
any. You love your husband Lady Avondale: I respect you too well to
attempt to change your affection; but if I wished it, your eyes already
tell me what power I have gained:—I could do what I would.” “No, no,”
she answered. “You are too vain.” “None ever yet resisted me,” said
Glenarvon, “do you think you could?” Calantha scarce knew how to answer;
but while she assured him she could resist any one and had no fear for
herself, she felt the contrary; and trembled with mixed apprehensions of
joy and sorrow at her boast—when others approached, he did not change:
his manner to Calantha: he discontinued his conversation; but he still
looked the same: he was not fearful as some would have been, or servile,
or full of what might be said:—he seemed in all respects careless or
desperate. He laughed, but his laugh was not the heart’s laugh: his wit
enlivened and dazzled others; but it seemed not the effect of exuberant
spirits.

It was not unfrequently the custom at Castle Delaval, during the fine
summer evenings, to walk after dinner, before cards or music. The flower
gardens, and shrubbery were the most usual places of resort. Lady Augusta
smilingly observed to Lady Mandeville and Sophia, that, for some evenings
past, Lady Avondale had taken more extensive rambles, and that Lord
Glenarvon and she were oftentimes absent till supper was announced. The
Count Gondimar, who overheard the remark, affected to think it malignant,
and asked with a sarcastic sneer, whether Lord Avondale were with her
on these evening excursions? “Little Mowbray seems a great favourite of
Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Lady Augusta; “but I do not fancy his father is
often of the party, or that his being Lady Avondale’s child is the cause
of it: the boy has a sprightly wit. We must not draw unfair conclusions:
last year Mr. Buchanan gave us alarm; and now, it is quite natural we
should all fall in love with Lord Glenarvon. I have myself; only he
will not return my advances. Did you observe what an eye I made him at
breakfast?... but that never was a love making meal. Place me but near
him at supper, and you shall see what I can do.”

Gondimar suddenly left Lady Augusta, who was walking on the terrace. He
had caught a glimpse of Calantha as she wandered slowly by the banks of
Elle:—he hastened to the spot; he saw her; he penetrated her feelings;
and he returned thoughtful and irritated to the Castle. Snatching a pen,
he wrote for some time. Lady Trelawney and Lady Augusta, observing him,
approached and insisted upon being made acquainted with his studies.
“It is an ode you are inditing, I am certain,” said the latter, “I saw
you struck by the God as you darted from me.” “You are right,” cried
Gondimar, “I am composing a song.” “In English too, I perceive.” “What,
if it be English? you know one of my talents, can write even in that
d——d language: so criticise my rhapsody if you dare. At all events, Lady
Avondale will admire it; for it is about a rose and love—most sentimental.
And where is she? for till her return, I will not shew it you.”

If that question, where is Lady Avondale? must be answered, it is with
sorrow and regret that such answer will be made:—she was walking slowly,
as Gondimar had seen her, by the banks of the river Elle: she was silent,
too, and mournful; her spirits were gone; her air was that of one who
is deeply interested in all she hears. She was not alone—Lord Glenarvon
was by her side. It was their custom thus to walk: they met daily; they
took every opportunity of meeting; and when in their morning and evening
rambles she pointed out the beautiful views around, the ranging mountains,
and the distant ocean,—he would describe, in glowing language, the far
more magnificent and romantic scenery of the countries through which he
had passed—countries teaming with rich fruits, vinyards and olive groves;
luxuriant vales and mountains, soaring above the clouds, whose summits
were white with snow, while a rich and ceaseless vegetation adorned the
valleys beneath. He told her that he hated these cold northern climes,
and the bottle green of the Atlantic;—that could she see the dark blue
of the Mediterranean, whose clear wave reflected the cloudless sky, she
would never be able to endure those scenes in which she now took such
delight. And soon those scenes lost all their charms for Calantha; for
that peace of mind which gave them charms was fast departing; and she
sighed for that beautiful land to which his thoughts reverted, and those
Italian climes, to which he said, he so soon must return.




CHAPTER XVII.


It was upon this, evening, that, having walked for a considerable time
Lady Avondale felt fatigued and rested for a moment near the banks of
Elle. She pointed to the roses which grew luxuriantly around. “They
are no longer rare,” she said alluding to the one he had given her upon
their first acquaintance at Donallan: “but are they the less prized?” He
understood her allusion, and pulling a bud from the mossy bank on which
it grew, he kissed it, and putting it gently to her lips asked her, if
the perfume were sweet, and which she preferred of the two roses which
he had offered her? She knew not what she answered; and she afterwards
wished she could forget what she had then felt.

Gondimar passed by them at that moment:—He observed her confusion; he
retired as if fearful of encreasing it; and, but too conscious that such
conversation was wrong, Calantha attempted once to change it. “I will
shew you the new lodge,” she said turning up a large gravel walk, out of
the shrubbery. “Shew me!” Glenarvon answered smiling. “Trust me, I know
every lodge and walk here better than yourself;” and he amused himself
with her surprise. Some thought, however, occurred, which checked his
merriment—some remembrances made this boast of his acquaintance with
the place painful to him. There was one, whom he had formerly seen and
admired, who was no longer present and whom every one but himself appeared
to have forgotten—one who lovely in the first bloom of spotless youth;
had felt for him all that even his heart could require. She was lost—he
should never see her more.

A momentary gloom darkened his countenance at this recollection. He
looked upon Calantha and she trembled; for his manner was much altered.
Her cheeks kindled as he spoke:—her eye dared no longer encounter his.
If she looked up for a moment, she withdrew in haste, unable to sustain
the ardent glance: her step tremblingly advanced, lingering, but yet not
willingly retreating. Her heart beat in tumult, or swelled with passion,
as he whispered to her that, which she ought never to have heard. She
hastened towards the castle:—he did not attempt to detain her.

It was late: the rest of the company were gone home. Thither she hastened;
and hurrying to the most crowded part of the room, flushed with her
walk, she complained of the heat, and thought that every eye was fixed
upon her with looks of strong disapprobation. Was it indeed so? or was
it a guilty conscience which made her think so?

Lady Mandeville, observing her distress, informed her that Count Gondimar,
had been composing a song, but would not sing it till she was present.
She eagerly desired to hear it. “It is about a rose,” said Gondimar,
significantly glancing his eye upon the one in Calantha’s bosom. The
colour in her cheeks became redder far than the rose. “Sing it,” she
said, “or rather let me read it ... or ... but wherefore are you not
dancing, or at billiards? How dull it must be for Clara and Charlotte”
(these were two of Lady Mandeville’s children). “You never thought of
Lady Mandeville’s beautiful children, and our state of dullness, while
you were walking,” cried Lady Augusta, “and last night you recollect that
when you made every one dance, you sat apart indulging vain phantasies
and idle reveries. However, they are all gone into the ball-room, if
dancing is the order of the night; but as for me, I shall not stir from
this spot, till I hear Count Gondimar’s song.”

“I will sing it you, Lady Avondale,” said the Count, smiling at her
distress, “the first evening that you remain at your balcony alone,
watching the clouds as they flit across the moon, and listening, I
conclude, to the strains of the nightingale.” “Then,” she said, affecting
unconcern, “I claim your promise for to-morrow night, punctually at
nine.” He approached the piano-forte. “Ah not now—I am engaged,—I must
dance.” “Now or never,” said the Count. “Never then, never,” she answered,
almost crying, though she affected to laugh. Lady Augusta entreated for
the song, and the Count, after a short prelude, placed the manuscript
paper before him, and in a low tone of voice began:—

(To the air of “_Ils ne sont plus_.”)

     Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing,
       Smooth and untroubled, through the flow’ry vale:
     O’er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing,
       Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale.

     Here ’twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing,
       One still too dear, first breath’d his vows to thee:
     Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing,
       Near to thy heart, in memory of me.

     Love’s cherished gift, the rose he gave, is faded;
       Love’s blighted flower, can never bloom again.
     Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded:
       Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain.

     Call back the vows, that once to heaven were plighted,
       Vows full of love, of innocence and truth.
     Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted:
       Call back the dream that blest thy early youth.

     Flow silver stream, tho’ threatening tempests lower,
       Bright, mild and clear, thy gentle waters flow;
     Round thy green banks, the spring’s young blossoms flower;
       O’er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.

     —Yet, all in vain; for never spring arraying
       Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair.
     Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtraying
       Years past of bliss, and future of despair.

  [Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.]

Gondimar seemed affected whilst he sung; and Calantha felt nearly
suffocated with every sort of feeling. Lady Augusta pretended not to
understand it, and hastened with Calantha into the adjoining room. Lord
Glenarvon followed and approached Lady Avondale: “Remember me in your
prayers, my gentlest friend,” he whispered. “Even in the still night let
some remembrance of Glenarvon occur. Think of me, for I am jealous even
of thy dreams.” The angry glance of Gondimar interrupted the conference.

Calantha could not sleep that night. A thousand fears and hopes rushed
upon her mind. She retired to her room: at one time seized a pen, and
wrote, in all the agony of despair, a full confession of her guilty
feelings to her husband; the next she tore the dreadful testimony of her
erring heart, and addressed herself to heaven for mercy. But vain the
struggle. From childhood’s earliest day she never had refused herself
one wish, one prayer. She knew not on the sudden how to curb the fierce
and maddening fever that raged within. “I am lost,” she cried, “I love—I
worship. To live without him will be death—worse, worse than death. One
look, one smile from Glenarvon, is dearer than aught else that heaven
has to offer. Then let me not attempt, what I have not power to effect.
Oh, as his friend, let me still behold him. His love, some happier, some
better heart shall possess.” Again she started with horror from herself.
“His love!” she cried, “and can I think of him in so criminal—so guilty
a manner! I who am a wife, and more—a mother! Let me crush such feelings
even now in their birth. Let me fly him, whilst yet it is possible; nor
imagine the grief, he says my absence will cause, can exceed the misery
my dishonourable attachment will bring upon both! And did he dare to tell
me that he loved me? Was not this in itself a proof that he esteemed me
no longer? Miserable, wretched Calantha; where shall I fly to hide my
shame? How conceal from a lover’s searching eyes that he is too dear?”

With such thoughts she attempted to close her eyes; but dreadful dreams
disturbed her fancy; and the image of Glenarvon pursued her even in sleep.
She saw him—not kneeling at her feet, in all the impassioned transports
of love; not radiant with hope, nor even mournful with despondency and
fear; but pale, deadly, and cold: his hand was ice, and as he placed it
upon hers, she shrunk as from the grasp of death, and awoke oppressed
with terror.




CHAPTER XVIII.


No one had apparently observed Lady Avondale’s feigned indisposition
that evening—feigned, indeed, it was not; no one soothed her during her
sleepless night; and in the morning when she awoke, at an early hour,
Lord Avondale asked her not the cause of her disquiet. She arose and
descended upon the terrace:—her steps involuntarily led her to the banks
of the Elle. The flowers, fresh with dew, sparkled in the sunshine, and
scented the soft morning air. She hurried on, regardless of the distance.
The rose he had given her was faded; but its leaves were preserved by
her with fondest care.

Whilst yet she walked, at a little distance she perceived Gondimar,
and was in consequence preparing to return, when he abruptly accosted
her; and with a manner too little respectful, rudely seized her hand.
“Have you not slept?” he cried, “my charming, my adored young friend,
that you are thus early in your walk; or did you imagine that others,
beside myself would wander upon these banks, and await your fairy step?
O suffer one who admires—who loves, to open his heart to you—to seize
this opportunity.” ... “Leave me—approach me not. What have I done to
deserve this from you?” she exclaimed. “Why seize my hand by force?
Why press it—oh God! to those detested lips? Leave me, Count Gondimar:
forget not the respect due to every woman.” “Of virtue!” he replied,
with a scornful smile. “But tell me, has Lady Avondale never suffered
such insults from some who have no better claim? Has she still a right
to this amazing mockery of respect? Ah! trust me, we cannot command our
love.” “Neither can we command our abhorrence—our disgust,” she exclaimed,
breaking from his grasp and hastening away.

As Calantha re-entered the Castle, she met Lady Margaret and Glenarvon,
who appeared surprised and disconcerted at seeing her. “Has Count
Gondimar been speaking to you upon any subject of importance?” said
Lady Margaret in a whisper, trying to conceal a look of suspicion, and
some embarrassment. Before Calantha could answer, he had joined them;
and explaining fully that their meeting had been entirely accidental,
they both walked off together apparently in earnest discourse, leaving
Lord Glenarvon and Lady Avondale together. Calantha’s heart was full,
she could not speak, she therefore left him in haste and when alone she
wept. Had she not reason; for every indignity and grief was falling fast
upon her. She could not tell what had occurred to Lord Avondale—he had a
fierce and dangerous spirit; and to Glenarvon she would not, upon every
account. Glenarvon awaited her return with anxiety. “I was surprised
to see you with my aunt,” she said, “what could you be saying to her.”
He evaded the question, and tenderly enquired of her the cause of her
uneasiness and tears. He loved beyond a doubt—at least he convinced
Calantha that he did so.

Confused, perturbed, she, more than ever felt the danger of her situation:
trembling she met his eyes, fearing lest he should penetrate her secret.
Confident in her own strength: “I will fly,” she said “though it be to
the utmost extremity of the earth; but I will never yield—never betray
myself. My fate is sealed—misery must, in future, be my portion; but no
eye shall penetrate into the recesses of my heart.—none shall share my
distress, or counsel me in my calamity.” Thus she reasoned; and struggling
as she thought, against her guilty passion, by attempting to deceive
the object of her devotion, she in reality yielded herself entirely to
his power, self deluded and without controul.

How new to her mind appeared the fever of her distracted thoughts! Love
she had felt—unhappy love, she had once for a time experienced; but no
taint of guilt was mingled with the feeling; and the approach to vice
she started from with horror and alarm. Lord Glenarvon had succeeded too
well—she had seen him—she had heard him too often; she fled in vain:
he read his empire in the varying colour of her cheeks; he traced his
power in every faltering word, in every struggling sigh: that strange
silence, that timid air, that dread of beholding him—all confirmed, and
all tempted him forward to pursue his easy prey. “She is mine,” he cried
exultingly,—“mine, too, without a struggle,—this fond wife, this chaste
and pure Calantha. Wherever I turn, new victims fall before me—they
await not to be courted.”

But Lord Glenarvon had oftentimes said, that he never again could feel
affection for any woman. How then was the interest he shewed Calantha to
be accounted for? What name was he to give it? It was the attachment of
a brother to the sister whom he loved: it was all devotion—all purity;
he would never cherish a thought that might not be heard in heaven, or
harbour one wish detrimental to the happiness of his friend. This was
said, as it often has been said: both felt that it was false; but both
continued to repeat, what they wished to believe possible. His health
and spirits had much declined; he looked as if sorrows, which he durst
not utter, afflicted his heart; and though, in the presence of others
he affected gaiety, when alone with Calantha he did not disguise his
sadness. She sought to console him: she was grave—she was gentle, she
could be both; and the occasion seemed to call for her utmost kindness.

He spoke much to her; and sometimes read as Lord Avondale once had done;
and none ever but Lord Avondale read as well. His tears flowed for the
sorrows of those whose poetry and history he repeated. Calantha wept
also; but it was for Glenarvon, that she mourned. When he had ended the
tale of love and sorrow, his eyes met hers and they spoke more—far more
than words. Perhaps he generously resolved to contend against his own
feelings; even at times he warned her of her danger.—But, when he bade
her fly him, he held her hand, as if to detain her; and when he said
the passion he cherished would cause the misery of both, he acknowledged
that her presence alleviated his sufferings, and that he could not bear
to see hers less.




CHAPTER XIX.


There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint—there are hours of
agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant
vice and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital
of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued
Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s
tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst
not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one
prayer; upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy;
and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead
of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions
disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirely possessed himself of her
imagination.

Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid secret, which weighed upon his
mind. He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; then turn to Calantha,
and ask her what she had heard and seen. His gestures, his menaces were
terrific. He would talk to the air; then laugh with convulsive horror;
and gazing wildly around, enquire of her, if there were not blood upon
the earth, and if the ghosts of departed men had not been seen by some.

Calantha thought that madness had fallen upon his mind, and wept to think
that talents such as his were darkened and shrouded over by so heavy a
calamity. But when the fierce moment was passed, tears would force their
way into his eyes, and placing her hand upon his burning head, he would
call her his sole comforter, the only hope that was left him upon earth;
his dearest, his only friend; and he would talk to her of happier times;
of virtues that had been early blighted; of hopes that his own rashness
and errors had destroyed.

It was one day, one dark and fatal day, when passion raging in his
bosom, and time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly approached her,
and seizing her with violence, asked her if she returned his love. “My
friendship is ruin,” he cried; “all alliance with me must cast disgrace
upon the object of my regard. But, Calantha, you must be mine! May I
not even now call you thus? Shall they ever persuade you to abandon me?
Vain is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; “I love you to madness
and to distraction—you know it too well. Why then suffer me to feel the
tortures I endure, when a word—a look from you could relieve me. You are
not indifferent: say then that you are not—thou, who alone canst save
me. Here even, in the presence of heaven, I will open my whole heart
before you—that heart is seared with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed
wounds, incurable and deadly. A few short years, I have perhaps yet
to linger: thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge me still lower,
whilst I cling to thee for mercy; but will you do it, because you have
the power?”

Calantha scarce could support herself. After a moment’s pause, he
continued, “You shall hear me.—Never, since the hour of my birth, never—I
make no exception of either the living, or, what is far dearer and
more sacred to me, the dead—never did I love with such mad and frantic
violence as now. O seek not to disguise it; that love is returned. I
read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; and whilst, with assumed and
barbarous coldness, you would drive me from you, your own heart pleads
for me; and, like myself, you love.”

Faint and trembling, Calantha now leant for support upon that arm which
surrounded her, and from which she, in vain, attempted to shrink. It
was a dreadful moment. Glenarvon, who never yet had sued in vain, marked
every varying turn of her countenance which too well expressed his empire
and her own weakness. “I cannot live without you.—Mine you are—mine you
shall ever be,” he said, “whilst this heart beats with life.” Then with
a smile of exultation, he seized her in his arms.

Starting however with all the terror which the first approach to guilt
must ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified and trembling: “even
though my heart should break in the struggle, let me not act so basely by
him to whom I am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not hate me—say only,” he
continued, with more gentleness, and pressing her hand to his lips—“say
only, that you share the tortures of agony you have inflicted—say that
which I know and see—that I am loved to adoration—even as I love you.”

With tears she besought him to spare her. “I feel your power too much,”
she said. “All that I ought not—must not say, I think and feel. Be
satisfied; your empire is complete. Spare me—save me; I have not power
to feign.” Her tears fell now unrestrained. “There is no need of this,”
he said, recovering himself; “you have sealed my fate. A moment of
passion beguiled me: I am calm now, as when first I met you—calm and
cold, even as yourself. Since it is your wish, and since my presence
makes your misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often said; but it shall
be alone. My country I leave without regret; for the chain of tyranny
has encompassed it: friends, I have none; and thou, who wert as an angel
of light to me—to whom I knelt for safety and for peace—mayst thou be
blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for me, nothing can increase
the misery I feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to share it. This
is no lover’s despondency—no sudden and violent paroxysm occasioned by
disappointed passion. It is uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness
of despair: it is the confession, not the repining of a heart that was
early blighted and destroyed.”

Calantha now interrupted him. “I alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk
not of leaving me; we may still be friends—we must never be more.” “Oh!
promise that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon looked on her with
kindness. “Let no fears dissuade you until I shew myself unworthy of
the trust. Forsake not him, whose only happiness is in your affection.
I was joyless and without hope, when first I met you; but the return,
to loneliness and misery, is hard to bear. Be virtuous, and, if it
may be so, be happy.” “That I never more can be,” she answered. “You
are young in sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know not its dangers, its
pleasures, or its bitterness. All this, ere long, will be forgotten.”
“Never forgotten,” she replied, “oh never!”




CHAPTER XX.


Glenarvon wandered forth every evening by the pale moon, and no one knew
whither he went, and no one marked but Calantha how late was his return.
And when the rain fell heavy and chill, he would bare his forehead to the
storm; and faint and weary wander forth, and often he smiled on others
and appeared calm, whilst the burning fever of his blood continued to
rage within.

Once Calantha followed him, it was at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld
her, no mark of surprise or joy. She followed him to the rocks called the
Black Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain called the Wizzard’s Glen;
there was a lonely cottage near the cleft where St. Clara, it was said,
had taken up her abode. He knocked; but she was from home: he called;
but no one replied from within. Her harp was left at the entrance of
a bower: a few books and a table were also there. Glenarvon approached
the harp and leaning upon it, fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly
upon Calantha. “Others who formerly felt or feigned interest for me,”
he said “were either unhappy in their marriage, or in their situation;
but you brave every thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how little do you
know the heart for which you are preparing to sacrifice so much.”

The place upon which they stood was wild and romantic; the sea murmured
beneath them; distant sounds reached them from the caverns; and the
boats passed to and fro within the harbour. The descent was rugged and
dangerous. Calantha looked first upon the scene, and then upon Glenarvon:
still he leant upon the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy
remembrances.

“Sing once again,” she said, at length interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I
first heard you:—those notes reached the heart.” “Did they?” he cried,
approaching her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, one ardent kiss.
The blood rushed from her heart in alarm and agitation:—she trembled
and turned from him. “There is no cause,” he said, gently following
her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet one; the last alone is full
of bitterness.”

“Sing to me” she said, confused and terrified, “for God’s sake, approach
me not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will sing,” he said, “and check those
fears,” saying which he began. It was not like a song, but a sort of
soft low murmur, with an air of such expression and empassioned feeling,
that every note said more than words: it vibrated to the soul.

     “Farewell.”

     Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me,
       I must not—dare not—look on thee;
       Too well thou know’st how dear thou art,
       ’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part:
       I wish thee not to share my grief,
       It seeks, it hopes, for no relief.

     “Farewell.”

     Come give thy hand, what though we part,
       Thy name is fixed, within my heart;
       I shall not change, nor break the vow
       I made before and plight thee now;
       For since thou may’st not live for me,
       ’Tis sweeter far to die for thee.

     “Farewell.”

     Thoult think of me when I am gone
       None shall undo, what I have done;
       Yet even thy love I would resign
       To save thee from remorse like mine;
       Thy tears shall fall upon my grave:
       They still may bless—they cannot save.

  [Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.]

“Sing no more,” said Calantha, “let us return home. I know not what I
say, or do. Judge not of my feelings by those which predominate in your
presence. I may be weak, I acknowledge your power, I am lost irretrievably
if you are resolved upon it.” “Calantha”, said Lord Glenarvon firmly,
“you may trust implicitly to my honor.—These are the last guilty words,
I will ever suffer to pass my lips. Henceforward consider me only as
your friend—as such accept my hand.”

At that moment, they were interrupted; a bark from Inis Tara approached
the shore, and O’Kelly, Lord Glenarvon’s servant, and two other men
alighted. “To avoid observation, I will join my friends one moment,” he
said, “if you will walk gently home, I can overtake you,—but, perhaps
you will await my return.” “I will go home: it is late,” said Calantha.
He appeared much vexed; “well then I will await your return,” saying
this Calantha descended with him the rugged path down the cliff, and
watched the lessening bark, and heard the distant shouts from some of his
followers who were assembled in the cavern, as they hailed his approach
to land: after which a long silence prevailed, alone interrupted by the
rippling of the waves. The meeting was apparently over: there were whole
parties returning from below, in different directions.

Whilst yet awaiting lord Glenarvon’s return, Calantha heard the same
air repeated, which he had so lately played. It seemed as if the wind,
as it blew along the wooded shores had struck upon the chords. It was
strange; for Glenarvon was gone. She turned in haste, and from above
beheld a young man. Ah no—it was St. Clara. Too soon she saw that it
was her. Her ear had caught the last murmurs of Glenarvon’s song, and
her hand feebly repeated the strain. But, soon perceiving Calantha, she
gazed with wild alarm one moment upon her, then, throwing the plumed hat
aside, with a grace and ease peculiar to herself, she struck the full
chords, and her clear voice ascended upon the air in soft impassioned
numbers. Lady Avondale heard the words of her song as it murmured along
the breeze.

(To the air of, “_Hear me swear how much I love_.”)

     By that smile which made me blest,
     And left me soon the wretch you see—
     By that heart I once possest,
     Which now, they say, is given to thee—
     By St. Clara’s wrongs and woes—
     Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.

     By those lays which breathe around
     A poet’s great and matchless art—
     By that voice whose silver sound
     Can soothe to peace th’ imprisoned heart—
     By every bitter pang I prove—
     Trust not young Glenarvon’s love.

     Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,
     Bereft of all that made life dear
     My health impaired, my spirit breaking,
     Yet still too proud to shed one tear:
     O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,
     Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.

     And when at length the hand of death
     Shall bid St. Clara’s heart be still—
     When struggling with its latest breath,
     His image shall her fancy fill,
     Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
     What fate attends Glenarvon’s love.

Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to approach her. “Beautiful, unhappy St.
Clara, I will be your friend—will protect you.” She ran forward, and
climbed the steep ascent with ease; but the youthful harper arose—her
dark sunny ringlets waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: she slightly
bowed to Calantha as if in derision; and laughing, as she upheld a chain
with an emerald ring, bounded over the rocks with an activity, which
long habit had rendered familiar.

Calantha beheld her no more: but the distant shouts of applause re-echoed
as at first among the caverns and mountains; and the bark with Lord
Glenarvon soon reappeared in sight. She awaited his return. As he
approached the beach, a loud murmur of voices from behind the rock
continued. He joined her in a moment. His countenance was lighted with
the ray of enthusiasm:—his altered manner shewed the success his efforts
had obtained. He told Calantha of his projects; he described to her the
meetings which he had held by night and day; and he spoke with sanguine
hope of future success—the freedom of Ireland, and the deathless renown
of such as supported her fallen rights. “Some day you must follow me,”
he cried: “let me shew you the cavern beneath the rock, where I have
appointed our meeting for the ensuing week.”

“I will walk no more with you to Inis Tara:—the harp sounds mournfully
on those high cliffs:—I wish never more to hear it.” “Have you seen
St. Clara?” he said, without surprise. “She sings and plays well, does
she not? But she is not dear to me: think not of her. I could hate
her, but that I pity her. Young as she is, she is cruelly hardened and
vindictive.”—“I cannot fear her: she is too young and too beautiful to
be as abandoned as you would make me think.”—“It is those who are young
and beautiful you should fear most,” said he, approaching her more
nearly.—“I may fear them,” she replied, “but can you teach me to fly
them?”

It was now late: very little else passed: they returned home, where
they were received with considerable coldness. But Lady Mandeville,
perceiving the state of suffering to which Calantha had reduced herself,
generously came forward to sooth and to assist her. She appeared really
attached to her; and at this time more even than at any former period,
shewed her sincere and disinterested friendship. And yet she was the
person Mrs. Seymour distrusted; and even Glenarvon spoke of her with
asperity and disdain. “Adelaide! though an envious world may forsake
thee, a grateful friend shall stand firm by thee to the last.” Such
were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, languidly throwing her
rounded arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, and sighed to think of
the misery she was preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I see how he loves
thee,” she continued, “I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.”

That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady Avondale. His letter repeated all
he had before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. She had scarce
received it, scarce placed it in her bosom, when Lady Margaret attacked
her. “You think,” she said, “that you have made a conquest. Silly child,
Lord Glenarvon is merely playing upon your vanity.” Lady Augusta whispered
congratulations: Sophia hoped she was pleased with her morning walk; Sir
Everard coldly asked her if she had beheld his niece, and then, with
a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it was vastly pleasant to depend upon
certain people’s promises.

All this time Calantha felt not grieved: Glenarvon had said he loved
her: it was enough: his attachment was worth all else beside; and Lord
Avondale’s increasing neglect and coldness steeled her heart against
the crime of inconstancy.

Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity of speaking to her. “If
you accept my friendship,” he said frowning, “I must be obeyed:—you
will find me a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. If I once love,
it is with fervor—with madness. I must have no trifling, no rivals. The
being I worship must be pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, think
not that it is to let others approach her. No, Lady Avondale; not even
what appears most innocent to you, shall be endured by me. I shall be
jealous of every look, word, thought. There must be no shaking of hands,
no wearing of chains but such as I bestow, and you must write all you
think and feel without reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if you have
the power; but if you remain, you already know your fate.”

Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt the necessity. To-morrow, she
said, she would go. That to-morrow came, and she had not strength.
Glenarvon wrote constantly: she replied with the same openness. “Your
letters chill me,” he said, “call me your friend, your lover: call
me Glenarvon—Clarence if you will. All these forms, these regulations
are odious amongst those who are attached. Say that you love, beloved
Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; for I see it, and know it.
There is no greater crime in writing it than in feeling it.” Calantha
said it too soon—too soon she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my friend,
my comforter:” such were the terms she used. Shame to the pen, the hand
that dared to trace them. Days, and days passed, and soon Glenarvon was
all on earth to her; and the love he felt or feigned, the only hope and
happiness of her existence.




CHAPTER XXI.


Lord Avondale now looked more and more coldly on Calantha; but all others
courted and flattered her. The Princess and many others had departed.
Mrs. Seymour alone appeared to watch her with anxiety. In vain Calantha
affected the most thoughtless gaiety: remorse and suspense alternately
agitated her mind. One evening she observed Lord Glenarvon and her aunt,
Mrs. Seymour, in earnest discourse—she knew not then that she herself
was the subject. “She is pure, she is innocent,” said Mrs. Seymour:
“her spirits wild and thoughtless, may have led her into a thousand
follies; but worse, never—never.”—“Fierce passion burns in her eye,”
said Glenarvon, scornfully: “the colour in her cheeks varies.—I love
her as well as you can,” he continued, laughing; “but do you think she
does not love me a little in return?”—“Oh! even in jest, do not talk
thus of Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour: “you alarm me.”—“There is no
occasion,” replied Glenarvon: “calm yourself. I only said, that were
I to attempt it I could succeed; she should be ready to leave you, and
Lord Avondale, her dear husband and her babes, and her retinue, and all
else; and I could make her follow me as St. Clara did: aye verily; but,
in truth, I will not.” Mrs. Seymour was angry; she coloured; she was
hurt. “You could not,” she replied with warmth. “O I know her well, and
know you could not. Whatever her faults, she is so pure, so chaste even
in thought.”—“She loves me.”—“It is false” said Mrs. Seymour, still more
eagerly. “Even if she had any foolish romantic liking to another than
her husband, Buchanan is the favourite”—“Buchanan!” said Lord Glenarvon
with a sneer. “I will make her heart ache for this,” after which he
retired.

Calantha knew not then one word of what had passed. The morning after
she was informed by Mrs. Seymour that Lord Glenarvon was gone. “Gone!
where?” she said rather in surprise, and agitated. “I know not,” replied
Mrs. Seymour, coldly enough. “I conclude to Belfont: his uncle Lord de
Ruthven is arrived there. But, indeed, I am glad he is gone:—you have
not conducted yourself well. I, your aunt, have no doubt of you; but
others, who know you less, Calantha, blame you more.”

A letter was now delivered to Mrs. Seymour: she opened it: it was from
Glenarvon; she was dreadfully agitated upon reading it. It contained
these words:—“As you seem to doubt the confidence and attachment with
which your niece, the Countess of Avondale, has honoured me, I enclose
you one of her own letters, that you may see my vanity alone did not
authorise me in the conclusion that she was attached to me. Her duplicity
to me can scarcely justify the means I take of opening an aunt’s eyes;
but the peculiar circumstances of my situation will, I hope, excuse it.

     “Your most obedient servant,
     “GLENARVON.”

This letter enclosed one of Lady Avondale’s—one which, however, she had
not blushed to write. She read it with terror when Mrs. Seymour placed
it in her hands. Cruel Glenarvon! could he have the heart thus to betray
me—to my own aunt too. Oh! had that aunt been less indulgent, less kind,
what had been my fate?

“You are innocent yet, my child,” said Mrs. Seymour, placing her arms
around her; “and the early conviction of the meanness and wickedness of
him for whom you were preparing to sacrifice so much, will render it
easy to reclaim yourself from your present errors, and look with less
confidence in future.”—“Never, never, will I pardon him,” cried Calantha,
with supprest indignation. “I will not hate; that were too flattering
to his vanity: I will not fly; that were a proof that there was cause
for it: but, lowered to the dust as I ought to feel—humbled to the earth
(and whilst she spoke, she looked and felt more proudly, more vainly
than ever), even I can despise him. What are superior talents, if he
who possesses them can act thus? Oh! I would rather die in torture, than
ever pardon this.”

“Be less violent,” said Mrs. Seymour, with a look of heart-broken
tenderness and affection: “that stubborn spirit must be subdued.”—“I
will revenge——” “Be calm, Calantha: think what you are saying: how
unfeminine and how puerile! Put off these frowns and this idle rage,
and look reasonably upon your own conduct, not upon his.”—“Shall you
ever permit him to enter these doors again?”—“Had I the power, assuredly
never.”—“Oh, let him return; I care not; I can see him with the scorn,
with the indifference he deserves. Do not look thus, my dearest aunt:
dry your tears: I am not worth one single tear now; but I will act in
future so as to silence even these too just reproaches.”

“Do you repent, Calantha?”—“Do not talk of repentance: I cannot feel it:
my sin is light compared with his.”—“Towards your husband,”—“Oh! Lord
Avondale, he is happy enough: he cares not.”—“Indeed he does, my child.
I tremble for you: every hour of your life is a continual warfare and
peril. One danger no sooner ends than another arises. Will you never
consider the duties of your situation, or the character you have to form
and to preserve?”—“Who is more loved than I am? On whom does even the
world smile with greater kindness? Beauties, wits, the virtuous—can they
cope with me? I am every one’s friend, and every one loves, even though
they blame Calantha.” As she said this, she smiled, and threw herself
on her aunt’s bosom.

But all this Calantha did but to cheer her aunt. Though not false, she
dreaded any one’s seeing the real state of her mind: at this moment,
she thought Mrs. Seymour too gentle, and of too tender a nature to bear
the violence of her headstrong character:—she knew it would cause her
misery were she to read her heart’s secret, and she smiled therefore and
spoke with levity, whilst her soul was in torture. But the very moment
Mrs. Seymour had left her, Calantha gave way to the rage of fury, and
the despondency she felt. To have lost Glenarvon, was at this time the
real source of her regret;—to speculate upon the cause of his sudden
cruelty and treachery her sole occupation.

At the hour of dinner Mrs. Seymour again entered her room; but without a
single reproach. She had been crying—her eyes were swollen and red; but
she affected scarcely to remember what had passed, and urged Calantha to
accompany her to dinner, as her absence on the day Lord Glenarvon was
from home, might appear strange. But Lady Avondale stubbornly refused,
and would not speak. She even appeared sullen, that her aunt might not
see she was miserable. She even affected more anger, more violence than
she felt against Glenarvon, that she might disguise from herself and
her aunt the pang his loss had given her. She relented however when she
saw her aunt’s grief; and, struggling with tears which never come till
passion is over, and which she thought it weak to display, she dressed
and appeared at dinner. It was alone to please Mrs. Seymour she had done
so; and, solely engrossed with the past, and utterly indifferent to the
mortifying remarks her melancholy and silence occasioned, Calantha hated
those who had the unkindness to censure and judge her, and looked not
upon herself with one sentiment of condemnation.

Towards evening Lord Avondale came to her, and said kindly enough that
she looked ill. Then her heart smote her, and affecting a pettish ill
temper, which she did not, could not feel, she replied that she was well,
and took up a book, as if to read. May none ever experience the torture
Calantha felt, when, instead of being offended, he gently pressed her
hand. She had rather he had struck a dagger into her heart.

Upon retiring to rest, Lady Avondale sent for Zerbellini, and asked
him respecting Lord Glenarvon. The boy was a constant favourite and
playmate of his; he carried notes and flowers, from each to the other;
and artless as he was, he already felt delight in the eager interest
so much mystery and secresy required.—He told Lady Avondale a thousand
anecdotes of Glenarvon; but he had told them so often that they failed
to please. He then showed her the presents he had received from those
who formerly professed to like her. “And did you ever shew them to Lord
Glenarvon?” said Lady Avondale? The thought occurring that this might
have offended. “I did,” said Zerbellini, with a shrewd smile.—“And
was he angry?”—“Oh, not in the least: only the more kind; and he did
question me so and then the boy repeated a thousand things that he had
asked, which shewed Calantha, too well, how eager he was to ascertain,
from other lips than her’s, every minute detail of follies and errors
she had committed. There was no need for this.”

Lady Avondale felt indignant; for there was not a thought of her heart
she desired to conceal from him. What she had done wrong, she herself had
confessed without reserve; and to be thus cross-examined and distrusted,
deeply grieved her. She thought, too, it lessened her regard; it gave
her a worse opinion of Glenarvon; and this god—this idol, to whom she
had bowed so low, sunk at once from the throne of glory upon which her
imagination had raised him. “If I pardon this,” she cried, as she sent
Zerbellini away, and hastened to bed,—“if ever I waste a tear, or sigh,
or thought, on him again, may I suffer what I deserve.—But the thing is
impossible.”

Lady Mandeville at this time was all kindness to Lady Avondale. She was
going from the castle; and, as she parted, she gave her this advice.
“Never place yourself in the power of any man: love of this sort is
apt to terminate in a wreck; and whoever puts most to stake will be the
sufferer.” Lady Augusta also departed.




CHAPTER XXII.


From that day, Lady Avondale grew more calm; a degree of offended pride
supported her; and she resolved, cost what it might, to continue firm.
She saw, that private communications were taking place between Lady
Margaret, her Father, and even her Aunt and Glenarvon. He had already
contrived to interest every individual in the castle in his affairs.—Lord
Avondale often spoke of him with praise; Sir Richard, though he said he
was a comical personage, admired him, and the female part of the society
were all eager and enthusiastic about him.

Lady Avondale experienced every feeling that can be imagined during this
short period; and received the half concealed taunts of her acquaintance
With becoming fortitude—even their commiseration for his having left her.
She heard their boasts too of what he had written to them, without once
repining; but envy, rancour, malice, hatred, rage and regret—all, more
or less, arose and subsided in her breast, till she heard one morning,
with a sort of trepidation, that Lord Glenarvon was in the adjoining
room. Mrs. Seymour immediately came to her. “Tell me truly,” she said,
“have you any objection to his dining here?” “Quite the contrary”, said
Calantha, with indifference; and she waited till she heard the sound
of the horses galloping from the outer court; she then looked from the
window, and her heart told her too well that she was not yet entirely
recovered from her infatuation.

At dinner they were to expect him; and ’till dinner Lady Avondale
could think of nothing else. Mrs. Seymour watched her with anxiety.—She
affected all things, to disguise what she felt, and she did it better
than before, for habit now rendered the effort less painful. But Lady
Margaret, laughing at her, whispered maliciously in her ear, that every
thought and feeling, was more strongly exhibited by her, with all her
attempts to hide them than by most others, when they wished them to be
seen. “And I know,” she added, unkindly enough, “you would give any thing
on earth to be friends with him again.” “With who?” “See he appears,”
she said, “shall I name him?”

Lady Avondale had resolved to be firm. There is a degree of dignity,
which every proud mind can assume. To have forgiven so much treachery
and cruelty, had been contemptible. She felt it, and prepared for the
encounter. “He will do every thing to regain you,” said Mrs. Seymour,
“but I have confidence in your present feelings. Shew him, that you are
not what he imagines; and prove to me, that I may still be proud of my
child.” Lady Avondale had taken Glenarvon’s ring from her finger, she
had placed upon her neck a row of pearls her husband had given her, upon
the eve of her marriage, and thus decorated, she thought her heart had
likewise returned to its ancient allegiance.

Lady Avondale entered the dining-room. Lord Glenarvon passed her at the
moment; he was in earnest conversation with Lady Margaret, and slightly
bowed to her. She was surprised, she had expected kindness and contrition.
She was, however, resolved to act up to the very strictest bounds which
decorum prescribed. With some haughtiness, some appearance at least of
dignity, she seated herself as far from him as he could desire, and by
addressing herself calmly but entirely to others, she sought to attain
that look of unconcern, which he had so readily assumed.

Dinner was no sooner over than unable any longer to conceal her vexation,
Lady Avondale retired to her room to compose herself. Upon returning, the
large society were employed either with billiards, cards, or work—except
a few of the men, amongst whom she perceived Lord Glenarvon. Had he
refrained from speaking to her, she could have borne it,—had he even
looked as grave, as ill as usual; but an unusual flow of spirits—a
peculiar appearance of health, had taken place of that customary languor,
to which he was at times subject.

The evening and the supper passed without his saying one word in
apology for his unkindness, or in the least attending to her increasing
irritation. Lady Avondale affected unconcern as well as she could,
but it looked like any thing else; and in the morning she awoke but to
suffer new humiliations. She saw him smile as he named her in a whisper
to Lady Trelawney. She heard him talk to others upon subjects he had
once spoken of only to herself. Immediately upon this apparent rupture,
new hopes arose; new claims were considered; and that competition for
his favour, which had ceased, began again. Lady Trelawney laughed and
talked with him; at times turning her eye triumphantly towards Calantha.
Sophia confided her opinions to his breast; affected to praise him for
his present conduct, and the tear of agony, which fell from Calantha’s
eye, excited the indignation it deserved.

“I have sacrificed too much for one who is heartless,” she said; “but,
thank God it is yet time for amendment.” Alas! Lady Avondale knew not,
as she uttered these words, that there is no moment in which it is so
difficult to act with becoming dignity and firmness, as that in which we
are piqued and trampled upon by the object of our devotion. Glenarvon
well knew this, and smiled at the pang he inflicted, as it proved his
power, and exhibited its effects to all. Lady Avondale summoned to her
aid even her faults—the spirit, the pride of her character, her very
vanity; and rested her hopes of firmness upon her contempt for weakness,
her abhorrence of vice. She looked upon him, and saw his attempts to
wound, to humiliate, to grieve; and she despised the man who could have
recourse to every petty art to torture one for whom he had professed so
much. If he wished to expose her weakness to every eye, too well he had
succeeded.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Few women know how to conceal successful love, but none can conceal
their doubt, resentment and jealousy. Men can do both, and both without
a struggle. They feel less, and fear more. But this was not the case
with Lord Glenarvon, nor did he wish to appear indifferent; he only
wished Calantha to feel his power, and he delighted in the exhibition
of it. In vain she had formed the best resolutions, they were now all
rendered useless. Lord Glenarvon had forestalled her wise intention, no
coldness—no indifference she could assume, had equalled that, which he
either affected or felt.

Upon the bosom of Mrs. Seymour, Calantha wept for her fault; it was
infatuation, she said, she was cured: the lesson, though somewhat harsh,
had not been fruitless. Again, she made every promise, which affection and
repentance could suggest. She heard the name of her husband pronounced,
and longed to throw herself before him, and commend herself to his mercy.
I do repent, indeed I do, said Calantha, repeatedly in the course of the
day; and she thought her penitence had been sincere. Humbled now, and
gentle, she thought only of pleasing her aunt, Lord Avondale, and her
friends. She was desired to play during the evening: to shew her ready
obedience she immediately obeyed. Lord Glenarvon was in an adjoining
room; he entered when she began: springing up, Lady Avondale left the
harp; then, seeing Lord Avondale surprised, she prepared to tune it.

Lord Glenarvon approached, and offered her his hand, she refused it.
“Will you play?” he said—and she turned the key with so much force that
it broke the chords asunder. “You have wound them too tight, and played
upon them too often,” he said. “Trifle not with me thus—I cannot play
now,” she replied. “Leave me, I entreat you.” “You know not what you have
done,” he replied. “All I ask—all I implore is, that you will neither
come near me, nor speak to me more, for I am mad.” “Women always recover
from these paroxysms,” said he, gaily. Calantha attempted to play, and
did so extremely ill, after which she went to bed, happier, it must
be owned, for she had seen in Lord Glenarvon’s manner that he was not
indifferent, and this rendered it more easy for her to appear so.

The next morning Lady Avondale went out immediately after breakfast,
without speaking to Lord Glenarvon. He twice attempted it, but with real
anger, she refused to hear him. It was late in the day, when, having
sought for her before dinner, he at length found her alone. His voice
faultered, his eyes were filled with tears. “Lady Avondale—Calantha,”
he said, approaching her, “forgive me.—I ask it of you, and more, if
you require it, I will kneel—will sue for it. You can make me what you
please—I am wholly in your power.” “There is no need for this,” she said
coldly.

“I will not rise till you forgive me. If you knew all—if ... but can you
indeed believe me indifferent, or cold? Look at me once: raise your eyes
and behold him, who lives but in you.” “All this is useless, you have
grieved me; but I do not mean to reproach, the idle complainings of a
woman are ever useless.” “To think that she suffers,” said Glenarvon,
“is enough. Look once—once only, look upon me.” “Let us part in peace,”
she replied: “I have no complaint to make, I have nothing to forgive,”
“raise your eyes, and look—Calantha look once on me.”

She turned to him, she saw that face whose every feature was engraved
deep in her very heart—that smile of sweetness—that calm serenity, she
had not power to speak—to think; and yet recovering from this strange
enchantment,—“How could you betray me?” she said. “I judge you not,
but I can never feel either interest, or friendship again.” “Yet,” said
Glenarvon gravely, “I need both at this time, for I am miserable and ill
too, only I do not wish to excite your compassion by these arts, and I
had rather die unforgiven, than use any towards you.”

“Wherefore did you betray me?” “Can you ask? I was deeply wounded. It is
not enough for me that you love me, all must, and shall know it. I will
make every sacrifice for you—run every risk: but every risk and every
sacrifice must be shared.” “Whatever my feelings may be,” she answered
coldly, “you shall never subdue me again. I may be infatuated, but I
will never be criminal—You may torture me as you please, if you have the
power over me which you imagine, but I can bear torture, and none ever
yet subdued me.”

“Calantha,” said Lord Glenarvon, taking her hand firmly, and smiling half
scornfully, “you shall be my slave. I will mould you as I like; teach you
to think but with my thoughts, to act but with my feelings, you shall
wait nor murmur—suffer, nor dare complain—ask, and be rejected—and all
this, I will do, and you know it, for your heart is already mine.” “If I
forgive you,” she cried, “If you do not” he said, approaching nearer. “I
never will.” “And ’till you do, though your whole family should enter,
I will kneel here—here, even at your feet.” “You think to menace me.” “I
know my empire. Take off those ornaments: replace what I have given you:
this too you shall wear,” he said, throwing a chain around her, “Turn
from me if you can: the heart that I have won, you cannot reclaim, and
though the hand be thus denied me, this, this is mine.” Saying this, he
pressed her lips to his, a strange feeling thrilled to her heart as she
attempted vainly to hate him, or extricate herself from his embrace.
“I love you to madness,” he said, and you distract me. “Trust yourself
entirely to me, it is the only means of safety left. Yes, Calantha, I
will do for you, what no man ever did before. If it destroy me, I will
never lead you to guilt, only rely upon me, be guided by me.” “You
ran the risk she said, of our being separated for ever, of making my
aunt miserable. Of——.” “Nonsense child, I never risk any thing, it was
necessary your aunt should know, and the fear of losing you entirely will
make her readily consent to my seeing you more than ever,” “Oh God! what
guilt. Think not that my attachment is such as to bear it.” “It shall
bear all things,” said Glenarvon; “but if you sacrifice what I desire,
I will conquer every wrong feeling for your sake? Our friendship will
then be innocent.” “Not absolutely ... indeed I fear it; and if——” “Ah!
leave these gloomy thoughts. If love should triumph—if you feel half for
me, what I feel from my soul for you, then you shall accompany me from
hence. Avondale may easily find another wife, but the world contains
for me but one Calantha.”

Lady Avondale felt happy.—Shame on the guilty heart that dared to feel
so! but alas, whilst Glenarvon thus addressed her, she did feel most
happy. In a moment, the gloom that had overshadowed her future hopes,
was dispelled. She saw her lover—her friend more than ever united to
her. He consented even to respect what remaining virtue she had left,
and from his gentle, his courteous words, it was not her wish to escape.
Yet still she resolved to leave him. Now, that peace was again restored,
that her irritated mind was calm, that her vanity was flattered, and
her pride satisfied, now the admonitions of her aunt recurred, and even
while her heart beat fondest for him, she pronounced her own doom, and
declared to him that she would tear herself away from him for ever.
“Perhaps this must be,” he said, after a moment’s pause; “but not yet,
Calantha, ah not yet.” As he spoke, he again pressed her to his bosom,
and his tears fell over her. Oh! had he not thus wept, Calantha had not
loved him. Struggling with his feelings for her, he generously resolved
to save, to spare her. “Remember this,” he said, “when they condemn
me.—Remember, Calantha, what I have done for you; how I have respected
you; and let not their idle clamours prevail.”

Lady Avondale was too happy to feel vain. Glenarvon loved, as she never
had been loved before, every hour—every moment of each passing day
he seemed alone intent, and occupied with her; he wrote his minutest
thoughts; he counselled, he did not command. He saw that power, ambition,
was her ruling passion, and by affecting to be ruled, he completely
mastered her—in word, in look, in thought, he was devoted to her. Other
men think only of themselves; Glenarvon conquered himself a thousand
times for her. What is a momentary, a degrading passion to the enjoyment
she felt in his society? It only lowers the object of its fancy, he
sought to raise her even in her own esteem. “Forgive her, pity us,” he
said, addressing Mrs. Seymour, who saw in a moment, with alarm, their
reconciliation. “Drive us not to despair, I will respect her—will preserve
her, if you do not attempt to tear her from me, but dread the violence
of madness, if you reduce us to the last rash step. Oh dread the violence
of a mad and incurable attachment.”

Calantha’s sole attention was now to hide from those it might grieve,
the change which a few days had again wrought. She appeared at dinner,
she seated herself opposite to Glenarvon. There was no look of exultation
in his countenance, his eyes met her’s mournfully. The diamond bracelets
that adorned her arms, had been given her by him; the chain and locket
which contained his dark hair, had been placed around her neck in token
of his regard; the clasp that fastened the band around her waist, was
composed of richest jewels brought by him from distant countries; and the
heart that was thus girt round and encircled with his gifts, beat only
for him, regardless of every other tie. “Oh my child! my child!” said
Mrs. Seymour, gazing on her in agony. “I will never reproach you, but do
not break my heart. You are ill in mind and health, you know not what
you say or do; God forgive and pardon you, my unhappy Calantha!” “Bear
with me a few moments,” said Lady Avondale much agitated: “I will part
from him; only give me time. Fear me not: I will neither leave you nor
act wickedly, but if you seek too hastily to sever us, oh my aunt, you
may be the means of driving two desperate minds to misery and madness.”




CHAPTER XXIV.


A few days previous to this quarrel and reconciliation, Sir Everard St.
Clare had been thrown from his horse in consequence of a tumult, in which
having beheld his niece and a dimness coming over his eyes, he was no
longer able to support himself. The fall was said to have injured his
spine. He was confined to his own room; but no one could prevail upon
him to lie upon his bed, or admit Lady St. Clare, who sat continually
sobbing at his door, lamenting her conduct and imploring his pardon.

Whatever were the sufferings of Lady Avondale’s mind at this time, she
yet resolved to visit this afflicted family, as she had a real regard for
the doctor in spite of his singularities. She was preparing therefore
the ensuing day, to call upon him, when a servant informed her that a
young gentleman below desired to speak with her. Her heart beat upon
hearing the name Clarence of Costolly: but upon entering the room she
soon discovered, in the personage before her, the doctor’s unhappy niece,
Elinor, upon whom every counsel was lost—every menace and punishment
powerless.

Elinor had entered the castle with a look of bold defiance; yet her
lips trembled, as she twice vainly attempted to address Lady Avondale,
who moved forward to enquire the cause of her visit. “I am come,” said
Miss St. Clare with haughty insolence, “to ask a favour of you—tell me
shall it be granted? my uncle is ill: he has sent to see me. This may
be a mere feint to draw me into his power. I will trust myself with no
one but you:—if you will engage for me, that I shall not be detained,
I will go to him; if not, come what will, I will never more set foot
into his house.” “Your having listened to the prayers of Sir Everard,”
answered Lady Avondale eagerly, “is a proof to me that you have a kind
heart, and you are so young, that I feel sure, oh most sure, that you
will return to a more virtuous course.” “To virtue!” said Elinor with
a smile of scorn “never—never.”

As she spoke, a letter dropped from her bosom. Lady Avondale saw from
the superscription—the name of Glenarvon. Her heart sickened at the
sight; she tried to conceal her emotion; but she had not yet learned
sufficiently how to dissemble. Elinor, with ill suppressed rage, watched
Lady Avondale: she could scarcely stand the fury of her glance, when
in a voice, nearly choked with passion, “take it,” she said, throwing
the letter to her. “Yes, you shall give it him—give it to your lover. I
would have hated you, I would have injured you; but I cannot. No wonder
he admires you: I could myself; but I am miserable.” Lady Avondale
raised her eyes; every fierce expression had left Elinor’s countenance:
with a subdued, and mournful air, she turned aside as if ashamed of the
weakness she had shewn; then, taking a little miniature and chain from
her neck, “he sent for this too,” she cried. “He sent for all he gave
me, to offer to his new idol. Take it then, lady; and tell him I obeyed
his last command.”

A tear dimmed for a moment her eye; recovering herself, “he has not
power,” she cried, “to break a heart like mine. ’Tis such as you, may die
for love—I have yet many years to live.” Lady Avondale sprang forward to
return the picture—the letter; but St. Clare, with a precipitancy she
was not prepared for, had left her; Lady Avondale arrived at the door
of the Castle only in time to see her gallop off.

While she was yet holding the letter and picture in her hand, Glenarvon
was announced. He looked at both without exhibiting any symptom of
surprise, and having read the letter, shewed it to Calantha. It greatly
shocked her. “I am so used,” said he smiling, “to these scenes, that they
have lost all power with me.” “Unhappy Elinor,” said Lady Avondale. “In
good truth,” said Glenarvon “you may spare your pity, Calantha: the lady
has spirit enough: it is her lover who ought to claim compassion.” “Now
do not frown,” said he, “or reproach, or torment me about her. I know it
was wrong first to take her with me—it was wrong to see her since; but
never more, you may rely upon it, shall I transgress; and if you knew
all, you would not blame me. She absolutely forced herself upon me. She
sat at my door, and wept when I urged her to return home. What could I
do: I might have resisted.—Calantha, when passion is burning in every
vein—when opportunity is kind—and when those who from the modesty of
their sex ought to stand above us and force us from them, forget their
dignity and sue and follow us, it is not in man’s nature to resist. Is
it in woman’s?” he continued smiling archly.

“I blame you not,” she replied; “but I pity her. Yet wherefore not
shew her some little kindness!” “A look, a word would bring her back
to me. She misrepresents every thing: she deceives herself.” “Love is
ever apt to do so.” “Oh! my adored Calantha, look not thus on me. You
are not like this wretched girl: there is nothing feminine, or soft, or
attractive in her; in you there is every charm.” “You loved her once,”
said Calantha. “It was passion, phrenzy, it was not love—not what I feel
for my Calantha.” “As you regard me, be kind to her.” “I was very kind
once, was I not?” “Oh not in that manner—not so.” “How then my soul?
explain yourself; you shall instruct me.” “Counsel her to repent.” “From
the lips that first taught her to err, how will such counsel prevail?”
“Why take your picture from her?” “To give it to the only friend I have
left.” “I shall send it her again.” “She will only laugh at you.” “I had
rather be the cause of her laughter, than of her tears.” “Fear not: she
is not prone to weeping; but perhaps,” he continued in a tone of pique,
“you would wish to give _me_ back also, as well as the portrait.” “Oh
never—never.” This was Lady Avondale’s answer; and Lord Glenarvon was
satisfied.




CHAPTER XXV.


Lady Avondale sent the portrait to Miss St. Clare, and vainly endeavoured
to restore her to her uncle’s protection. She again spoke of her to
Glenarvon.

“Cannot I yet save her?” she said; “Cannot I take her home, and sooth
her mind, and bring her back to virtue and to peace?” “Never more,” he
replied: “it is past: her heart is perverted.” “Is there no recall from
such perversion?” “None, none, my friend.” His countenance, whilst he
spoke, assumed much of bitterness. “Oh there is no recall from guilty
love. The very nature of it precludes amendment, as these beautiful,
these emphatic lines express, written by the Scottish bard, who had felt
their truth:”—

     “The sacred lore o’weel-plac’d love,
       Luxuriantly indulge it;
     But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
       Tho’ naething should divulge it:
     I wave the quantum o’ the sin,
       The hazard of concealing;
     But och! it hardens a’ within,
       And petrifies the feeling.”

“Is it indeed so?” “Alas! then, what will become of me?” “Calantha,
your destiny is fixed,” he cried, suddenly starting as if from deep
thought; “there is a gulph before you, into which you are preparing to
plunge. I would have saved you—I tried; but cannot. You know not how to
save yourself. Do you think a momentary pause, a trifling turn, will
prevent the fall? Will you now fly me? now that you are bound to me,
and the fearful forfeiture is paid? Oh turn not thus away:—look back at
the journey you have taken from innocence and peace: and fear to tread
the up-hill path of repentance and reformation alone. Remember when a
word or look were regarded by you as a crime—how you shuddered at the
bare idea of guilt. Now you can hear its language with interest: it has
lost its horror: Ah soon it shall be the only language your heart will
like. Shrink not, start not, Calantha: the road you pursue is that which
I have followed. See and acknowledge then, the power I hold over your
heart; and yield to what is already destined. You imagine, when I speak
of guilt, that you can shrink from me, that you can hate me; but you
have lost the power, and let me add, the right: you are become a sharer
in that iniquity—you must be a sharer in my fate. The actual commission
of crime still excites horror; but do you remember when you shuddered
at every approach to it? And cannot he who has triumphed thus far gain
all, think you, if it were his desire? Yes, you are mine—a being wholly
relying upon a wish, a breath, which I may chuse to kindle. Avondale’s
peace—your honour, are in my hands. If I resign you, my heart will break
in the struggle; but if I give way....”

“Oh then,” she cried, “then are we ruined for ever and for ever. Do
not, even were I to consent, O! do not lead me to wrong. What shall ever
remunerate us for the loss of self-approbation?” He smiled bitterly. “It
is,” he said, “a possession, I never yet cared greatly to retain.” “And
is self-approbation the greatest of all earthly enjoyments? Is man so
independent, so solitary a being, that the consciousness of right will
suffice to him, when all around brand him with iniquity, and suspect him
of guilt?” He paused, and laughed. “Let us be that which we are thought,”
he cried, in a more animated tone. “The worst is thought; and that worst
we will become. Let us live on earth but for each other: another country
will hide us from the censures of the prejudiced; and our very dependence
upon each other, will endear us more and more.” Calantha withdrew her
hand—she looked upon him with fear; but she loved, and she forgot her
alarm.




CHAPTER XXVI.


Strange as it may appear, a husband, unless his eyes are opened by
the confession of his guilty partner, is the last to believe in her
misconduct; and when the world has justly stamped disgrace upon her
name, he shares in his wife’s dishonour, for he is supposed by all to
know, and to connive at her crime. But though this be a painful truth,
experience every day confirms, that a noble and confiding husband is too
often, and too easily deceived. In the marriage state there is little
love, and much habitual confidence. We see neglect and severity on the
part of the man; and all the petty arts and cunning wiles on the side of
his more frail and cowardly partner. Indifference first occasions this
blindness; infatuation increases it; and in proportion as all interest
is lost for the object who so deceives, such husband lives the dupe of
the wife, who despises him for his blindness and dies in the same happy
illusion, in which he has so long passed away his life. He even presses
to his heart, as he leaves them his possessions, the children of some
deceitful friend, who, under the plea of amity to himself, has fed upon
his fortunes, and seduced the affections of his wife.

Disgusting as such picture may be thought, is it not, unhappily for us,
daily exhibited to the public view? and shall they who tolerate and see
it, and smile in scorn at its continued and increasing success, affect
to start with horror from Calantha’s tale? or to discredit that Avondale
was yet ignorant of her guilt? He was ofttimes engaged with the duties
of his profession—nor thought that whilst risking his life in the service
of his country, the woman he loved and confided in, had betrayed him.

His cheeks were red with the hue of health; his eyes shone bright with
sparkling intelligence; he laughed the loud heart’s laugh at every merry
jest, and slept with unbroken slumbers, the sleep of the righteous and
the just. Calantha looked upon him as we look afar off upon some distant
scene where we once dwelt, and from which we have long departed. It
awakens in our memory former pains and pleasures; but we turn from it
with bitterness; for the sight is distressing to us.

Harry Mowbray loved his father and followed him; the baby Anabel held
out her arms to him when he passed; but Calantha assumed a stern coldness
in his presence, and replied to his few enquiries with all the apparent
insensibility of a proud and offended mind: yet such is the imperfection
of human nature, that it is possible Lord Avondale cherished her the
more for her very faults. Certain it is, that he felt proud of her,
and every casual praise which, even from the lips of strangers, was
bestowed on Calantha, gave him more delight than any profession, however
flattering, that could have been made to himself. To see her blest
was his sole desire; and when he observed the change in her manner and
spirits, it grieved, it tortured him:—he sought, but in vain, to remove
it. At length business of importance called him from her. “Write,” he
said, at parting, “write, as you once used. My presence has given but
little satisfaction to you; I dare not hope my absence will create pain.”
“Farewell,” said Lady Avondale, with assumed coldness. “There are false
hearts in this world, and crimes are enacted, Henry, at home ofttimes,
as well as abroad. Confide in no one. Believe not what your own eyes
perceive. Life is but as the shadow of a dream. All here is illusion.
We know not whom we love.”

How happy some may imagine—how happy Calantha must have felt now that
Lord Avondale was gone. Far from it. She for the first time felt remorse.
His departure filled her with gloom:—it was as if her last hope of
safety were cut off; as if her good angel had for ever abandoned her;
and with a reserve and prudence, which in his presence, she had failed
to assume, she now turned with momentary horror from the near approach
of vice. The thought of leaving her home and Lord Avondale, had not
indeed ever seriously occurred, although she constantly listened to the
proposal of doing so, and acted so as to render such a step necessary.
She had seen Lord Avondale satisfied, and whilst Lord Glenarvon was near
her, no remorse obtruded—no fear occurred—she formed no view for the
future. To die with him, or to live but for that moment of time, which
seemed to concentrate every possible degree of happiness, this was the
only desire of which she had felt capable. But now, she shuddered—she
paused:—the baseness of betraying a noble, confiding husband, struck
her mind, and filled it with alarm; but such alarm appeared only to
accelerate her doom. “If I can resist and remain without deeper guilt, I
will continue here,” she cried; “and if I fail in the struggle, I will
fly with Glenarvon.”—This false reasoning consoled her. A calm, more
dangerous than the preceding agitation, followed this resolve.

Glenarvon had changed entirely in his manner, in his character; all art,
all attempt at wounding or tormenting was passed. He seemed himself the
sufferer, and Calantha, the being upon whose attachment he relied, he was
as fearful of vexing her, as she was of losing him. On earth he appeared
to have no thought but her; and when again and again he repeated, “I
never loved as I do now,—oh never.” It may be doubted whether that heart
exists which could have disbelieved him. Others who affect only, are
ever thoughtful of themselves; and some plan, some wary and prudential
contrivance frequently appears, even in the very height of their passion.
The enjoyment of the moment alone, and not the future continuance of
attachment, employs their hopes. But Glenarvon seemed more anxious to
win every affection of her heart; to fix every hope of her soul upon
himself; to study every feeling as it arose, sift every motive, and
secure his empire upon all that was most durable, than to win her in the
usual acceptation of the word. And even though jealous that she should
be ready to sacrifice every principle of honour and virtue, should he
demand it, he had a pride in saving her from that guilt into which she
was now voluntarily preparing to plunge.

Day by day, the thought of leaving all for him appeared more necessary
and certain.—She no longer shuddered at the mention of it. She heard him
describe their future life—the countries they should visit; and it even
pleased her to see that he was sincere in his intentions. No disguise
was now required: he called not the fire that burnt in his heart by
the name of friendship and of interest: “it is love,” he cried, “—most
guilty—most unconquerable. Hear it, mark it, and yet remain without
alarm. Ah! think not that to share it alone is required: your soul must
exult, that it has renounced every hope beyond; and Glenarvon’s love
must entirely fill your affections. Nay more, you shall sue for the
sacrifice which is demanded of others. Yourself shall wish it; for I
will never wrest from you that which, unless freely given, is little
worth. Perhaps, even when you desire to be mine, I, even I shall spare
you, till maddening with the fierce fires that devour us, you abandon
all for me.”

He now opened to her the dark recesses of his heart; deeds of guilt
concealed from other eyes, he now dwelt upon to Calantha with horrid
pleasure. “Shrink not, start not,” he exclaimed, when she trembled at each
new confession. “Proud, even of my crimes, shalt thou become, poor victim
of thy mad infatuation; this is the man for whom thou leavest Avondale!
Mark me Calantha,—view me as I am, nor say hereafter that Glenarvon
could deceive.” “And do you never feel remorse?” she said.—“Never.” “Do
you believe?—” His countenance for one moment altered. “I know not,” he
said, and he was grave. “Oh must I become as hard as wicked” she said,
bursting into tears. He pressed her mournfully to his bosom. “Weep,” he
replied, “I like to see your tears; they are the last tears of expiring
virtue. Henceforward you will shed no more.”

Those who have given way to the violence of any uncontrouled passion,
know that during its influence all other considerations vanish. It is of
little use to upbraid or admonish the victim who pursues his course: the
fires that goad him on to his ruin, prevent his return. A kind word, an
endearing smile, may excite one contrite tear; but he never pauses to
reflect, or turns his eyes from the object of his pursuit. In vain the
cold looks of an offended world, the heavy censures, and the pointed,
bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. Misfortunes, poverty, pain,
even to the rack, are nothing if he obtain his view. It is a madness
that falls upon the brain and heart. All is at stake for that one throw;
and he who dares all, is desperate, and cannot fear. It was phrenzy,
not love, that raged in Calantha’s bosom.

To the prayers of a heart-broken parent, Lady Avondale opposed the
agonizing threats of a distempered mind. “I will leave you all, if you
take him from me. On earth there is nothing left me but Glenarvon.—Oh
name not virtue and religion to me.—What are its hopes, its promises,
if I lose him.” The fever of her mind was such, that she could not for
one hour rest: he saw the dreadful power he had gained, and he lost
no opportunity of encreasing it. Ah did he share it? In language the
sweetest, and the most persuasive, he worked upon her passions, till he
inflamed them beyond endurance.

“This, this is sin,” he cried, as he held her to his bosom, and breathed
vows of ardent, burning love. “This is what moralists rail at, and
account degrading. Now tell them, Calantha, thou who didst affect to be
so pure—so chaste, whether the human heart can resist it? Religion bids
thee fly me,” he cried: “every hope of heaven and hereafter warns thee
from my bosom. Glenarvon is the hell thou art to shun:—this is the hour
of trial. Christians must resist. Calantha arise, and fly me; leave me
alone, as before I found thee. Desert me, and thy father and relations
shall bless thee for the sacrifice: and thy God, who redeemed thee, shall
mark thee for his own.” With bitter taunts he smiled as he thus spoke:
then clasping her nearer to his heart, “Tell both priests and parents,”
he said exultingly, “that one kiss from the lips of those we love, is
dearer than every future hope.”

All day,—every hour in the day,—every instant of passing time Glenarvon
thought but of Calantha. It was not love, it was distraction. When near
him, she felt ecstacy; but if separated, though but for one moment,
she was sullen and desponding. At night she seldom slept; a burning
fever quickened every pulse: the heart beat as if with approaching
dissolution,—delirium fell upon her brain. No longer innocent, her fancy
painted but visions of love; and to be his alone, was all she now wished
for, or desired on earth. He felt, he saw, that the peace of her mind,
her life itself were gone for ever, and he rejoiced in the thought.




CHAPTER XXVII.


One night, as she retired to her room, Gondimar met her in the passage,
leading from Mrs. Seymour’s apartment. “Lost woman,” he cried, fiercely
seizing her, “you know not what you love;—look to his hand, there is
blood on it!...” That night was a horrid night to Calantha; she slept,
and the dream that oppressed her, left her feeble and disordered. The
ensuing day she walked by the shores of the sea: she bared her forehead
to the balmy gales. She looked upon every cheerful countenance in hopes
of imbibing happiness from the smile that brightened theirs, but it was
vain.

Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. They walked together to the mountains;
they conversed; and half in jest she asked him for his hand,—“not that
hand,” she said, “give me your right hand: I wish to look upon it.”
“I believe I must refuse you, your manner is so strange,” he replied.
“Do if you please, for the reason I wish to see it is more so. It was
a dream, a horrid dream, which made me ill last night. The effect,
perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” “I should like to hear it. Are
you superstitious?” “No; but there are visions unlike all others, that
impress us deeply, and this was one. I almost fear to tell it you.” “I
too have dreamt,” said he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought only to
my fancy, the dearest wishes of my heart. Oh would to God that I might
live to realize a dream like that, which blest me yesternight. Shall I
repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad for it; but mine, if indeed you wish
it, you may hear.”

“I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat it) that I was in some far distant
country. I was standing by the sea, and the fresh air blew gently upon
me, even as it does now; but ... it was night. There was a dirge sung as
in monasteries, and friars passed to and fro, in long procession before
me. Their torches now and then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt was
mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all this was confused.—That which
was more striking, I remember better. A monk in black stood before me;
and whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to a height unusual and monstrous:
he seemed to possess some authority over me, and he questioned me as to
my conduct and affections. I tried to disguise from him many thoughts
which disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried manner of others; I named you
not. He shook his head; and then looking fiercely at me, bade me beware
of Clarence de Ruthven (for so he called you). I never can forget his
voice. All others you may see, you may converse with; but, Calantha,
beware,” he said, “of Clarence de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” “A
what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. “I dare not continue.”

Glenarvon, however, insisted upon hearing this. “I never, never can
tell,” said Calantha, “for you look so much offended—so serious.—After
all, what nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” “That which seems to
have made no little impression upon Lady Avondale’s mind, cannot fail of
awakening some interest in mine. It is a very strange vision,” continued
he, fixing his eyes on her. “These idle phantasies are but repetitions
of the secret workings of the mind. Your own suspicions have coloured
this. Go on, let me hear all.” “Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I
seemed in my dream to doubt his words. Only this I remember:—he bade
me ask you for your hand—your right hand; he said there was a stain of
blood on it; and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he will not give it
you; there is a mark upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I awoke.”

“To think me every thing however bad, that your monk may chuse to make
me out. Well foolish dreamer, look at my hand: say, is there a mark
on it?” The laugh which accompanied this question was forced. Calantha
started back, as she again observed that almost demoniac smile. His eyes
glared upon her with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks became pale; and
over his forehead, an air of deep distress struggled with the violence
of passion, till all again was calm, cold, and solemn, as before. She
was surprised at his manner; for although he made light of it, he was
certainly displeased, and much moved by this foolish occurrence.

Glenarvon continued absent and irritable during the whole of the walk;
nor ceased enquiring oftentimes that day, respecting what she had said. It
appeared to her less extraordinary, when she remembered the circumstances
concerning Linden; yet he had so often acknowledged that event to her,—so
often spoke of him with pity and regret, that had he merely thought she
alluded to such transaction, he had been proud of the effort he had made
to save him, and of the blood he had shed upon that account. Whatever
then occasioned this strange perturbation;—however far imagination might
wander, even though it pictured crimes unutterable,—under Glenarvon’s
form all might be forgiven. Passion, perhaps, had misled its victim, and
who can condemn another when maddening under its trying influence! It
was not for Calantha to judge him. It was her misfortune to feel every
thing with such acute and morbid sensibility, that what in others had
occasioned a mere moment of irritation, shook every fibre around her
heart. The death of a bird, if it had once been dear, made her miserable;
and the slightest insult, as she termed it, rendered her furious.
Severity but caused a desperate resistance, and kindness alone softened
or subdued her. Glenarvon played upon every passion to the utmost; and
when he beheld her, lost beyond all recall, he seemed to love her most.

How vain were it to attempt to paint the struggles, the pangs, the
doubts, the fears, the endless unceasing irritation of a mind disordered
by guilty love. Remorse had but little part in the disease; passion
absorbed every feeling, every hope; and to retain Glenarvon was there
any thing his weak and erring victim had refused? Alas! the hour came,
when even to leave all and follow him appeared incumbent. The very ruin
such conduct must occasion to Calantha, engaged her more eagerly to
agree to the proposal.

Lady Margaret was now at times engaged with him in secret discourses,
which occasioned much apparent dissention between them; but Calantha
was not the subject. “He has the heart of a fiend,” Lady Margaret would
often exclaim, as she left him; and Calantha could perceive that, with
all her power of dissimulation, she was more moved more irritated by
him, than she ever had been before by any other. He also spoke of Lady
Margaret with bitterness, and the asperity between them grew to such a
height, that Calantha apprehended the most fatal effects from it. Still,
however, the Duke wished to conciliate a dangerous and malignant foe;
and though his visits to the castle were short, compared with what they
had been, they were as frequent as ever.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


It happened one morning that Calantha, having been walking with Lord
Glenarvon, upon her return entered the library rather unexpectedly, and
perceived Zerbellini with the Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret. They
all seemed in some confusion at her entrance. She was however too deeply
occupied with other thoughts to enquire into their strange embarrassment;
and looking at Glenarvon, she watched the varying expression of his
countenance with anxious solicitude. At dinner that day he seated himself
near her. Mrs. Seymour’s eyes were filled with tears. “It is too late,”
he said, in a low whisper: “be firm: it makes me mad to see the arts
that are used to separate us. Speak only to me—think only of me. What
avail their frowns, their reproaches? I am dearer, am I not than all?”

Dinner being over, Calantha avoided her aunt’s presence. She perceived
it, and approaching her, “My child,” she said, “do not fly me. My unhappy
Calantha, you will break my heart, if you act thus.” At that moment Lady
Margaret joined them: “Ask Calantha,” she said, “now ask her about the
pearl necklace.”

The pearl necklace in question was one which Lord Avondale had given
Calantha on the eve of her marriage. She was now accused of having given
it to Lord Glenarvon. It is true that she had placed in his hands all
the jewels of which she was mistress, that his presents might not exceed
in value such as she had power to offer; they had been too magnificent
otherwise for her to receive; and though only dear because they were
his gifts, yet to have taken them without return had been more pain than
pleasure; one smile of his were worth them all—one approving look, far
dearer. This gift of Lord Avondale’s, however, she had considered as
sacred, and neither Lord Glenarvon’s love, nor her own perversion, had
led her to touch it. She had received it when innocent and true; it was
pain to her even to look upon it now; and when she heard the accusation
made against her, she denied it with considerable warmth; for guilt but
irritates the mind, and renders the perpetrator impatient of accusation.
“This indignation is rather ill-timed however,” said Lady Margaret,
sarcastically: “there are things more sacred than pearls thrown away;
and if the necklace has not been given, it is, I believe, the only thing,
that has been retained.”

Such unpleasant conversation was now interrupted by Sophia, who entered
the room.—“The necklace is found,” she said; “and who do you think had
taken it?” “I care not,” said Calantha proud and offended at their former
suspicions. “Zerbellini!” “Oh impossible!” “Some of Lady Margaret’s
servants first suggested the possibility,” said Sophia. “His desk and
wardrobe were consequently examined, and scarce giving credit to the
testimony of their sight, the lost prize was discovered in his silken
vest.” Calantha indignantly resisted the general belief that the boy was
the real culprit. Every one left the room, and eagerly enquired into the
whole affair. “If ocular proof is necessary to convince you,” said Lady
Margaret, returning to Calantha and leading her from the billiard room,
accompanied by many others, “you shall now have it; and see,” she cried,
pausing as she entered the boy’s apartment, “how soundly criminals can
sleep!” “Aye, and how tranquil and innocent they can appear,” continued
Gondimar smiling as he stood by the side of the page’s bed. Glenarvon’s
countenance, rendered more terrible by the glimmering of the lamp,
changed at these words.

There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, lay the youthful Zerbellini, his
cheeks blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing in clusters about his face,
his arms thrown over his head with infantine and playful grace. “If he
be guilty,” said Calantha, looking earnestly at him, “Great God, how
much one may be deceived!” “How much one may be deceived!” said the Duke
turning back and glancing his eye on the trembling form of his daughter.
The necklace was produced: but a look of doubt was still seen on every
countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly approaching Gondimar, asked him
whether some villain might not have placed it there, to screen himself
and to ruin the boy? “I should be loath,” replied the Italian, with an
affectation of humility, “very loath to imagine that such a wretch could
exist.” A glance of bitter scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed.

“We can see the boy, alone, in the morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper
to Calantha; “there is more in this than we know of. Be calm; fear
not, and to-morrow, we can with caution discover all.” “Do not talk of
to-morrow,” replied Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment is too long to
bear injustice. I will plead with my father.” So saying, she followed
him, urging him to hear her. “Consider the youth of the child,” she said,
“even if guilty, remember he is but young.” “His youth but aggravates
the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing her. “When the young can
act basely, it shews that the heart’s core is black. Plead not for him:
look to yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and left her. The time
was past when a prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed in vain; and
struggling with a thousand strong emotions, she fled to her own room,
and gave vent to the contending passions, by which she was so greatly
agitated.

That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt
was now considered as certain. The Duke himself awakening the child,
asked him if he had taken the necklace. He coloured extremely; hid his
face, and then acknowledged the offence. He was questioned respecting
his motive; but he evaded, and would not answer. His doom was fixed.
“I will take him from hence,” said Gondimar. “He must not remain here
a single hour; but no severity shall be shewn to so youthful an offender.”

It was at that dark still hour of the night, when spirits that are
troubled wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, that Lady Margaret
and Count Gondimar, entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if he were
prepared. “For what?” exclaimed the boy, clasping his hands together.
“_Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi!_ Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady
Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are
these your promises—your kindnesses?” “Help me to bear him away,” said
Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If Glenarvon should hear us? and force was
used to bear the struggling boy from the Castle?”

In the morning Calantha was informed, by Lady Margaret, of the whole
transaction. She said, however, that on account of his youth, no other
notice would be taken of his fault, than that of his being immediately
sent back to his parents at Florence.

Calantha was unquiet and restless the whole of the day. “The absence of
your page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, as she passed her, “seems
to have caused you some little uneasiness. Do you expect to find him
in any of these rooms? Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, or the
Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel been examined thoroughly?”

A loud noise and murmur interrupted her. The entrance of the Count
Gondimar, pale and trembling, supported by Lord Glenarvon and a servant,
gave a general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, fiercely glancing his
eyes around, “attacked our carriage, and forced the child from my grasp.”
“Where?—how?” “About twenty miles hence,” said the Italian. “Curse on
the darkness, which prevented my defending myself as I ought.” “Those
honorable wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently that the Count
wrongs himself.” “Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do me a favour. Fly to
the stables; view well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear any appearance
of recent service: I strongly suspect him: and but for his presence
at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, I could have staked my
soul it was by his arm I received these wounds.” “The horse,” said Lord
Trelawny, when he returned, “is sleek and far different from the reeking
steeds that followed with your carriage.” Glenarvon smiled scornfully
on the officious Lord: then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, “I
read your suspicions,” said he in a low voice, as he passed: “they are
just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,”
replied Gondimar, grinding his teeth. “By the murdered....” “Say no more,”
said Glenarvon, violently agitated, while every trembling nerve attested
the agony he endured. “For God’s sake be silent. I will meet you at St.
Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the whole of my conduct, and you
will not find in it aught to give you just offence.” “The ground upon
which you stand has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, with a malicious
smile: “look at your hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and exhausted,
scarce appeared to support himself any longer; but suddenly collecting
all his forces together, with a struggle, which nature seemed scarcely
equal to endure, he sprung upon the Italian, and asked him fiercely the
meaning of his words. Gondimar now, in his turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney
interposed; and peace was apparently restored.




CHAPTER XXIX.


The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count,
though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon
took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were.
Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening.
Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort
her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense,
O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of
his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back
door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a
portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching
an opportunity hastened to the door. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited
her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was
Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when
she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been
betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and
every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said
the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said
O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward.

“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured;
confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I
contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause
the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the
cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never,
never,” she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said,
in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets
upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou
read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back
with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared
for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty;
grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am
thus with you.”

There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays
his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the
commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look,
so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful
countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that
very time he shrunk from the joy she professed; for he knew that he had
led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever.

“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let
me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my
soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes;
for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that
I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name!
Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to
thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it.
You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to
hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love
me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and
received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me
some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been my victims; I,
alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have
made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you,
and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your
pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who
affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary
exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing
by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed
upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in
the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched
victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary
path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than
when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my
agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their
suspicions; but do not you refuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I
have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast
away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the
only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal
perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou
consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the
strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor,
every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah
say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?”

“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more
miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible
you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will
consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her
full in the face. “Alas! if I do thus, how will yourself despise me.
When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with
infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how
will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from
the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue
spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every
opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought
against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will
teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it
is nothing to it.”

“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget
the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me
die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,”
said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I
will trust you; but not till then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as
she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I
do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You
love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look
not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers
of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I
will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.”
“And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.”
“Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview
with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that
you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but
of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what
disguise would I not assume to see you?”

O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his
ear.—“I will attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.”
“Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks:
you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will
trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly
interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said
Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all
without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady
Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though
I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if
you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to
the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he
promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home.




CHAPTER XXX.


Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the
morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady
Margaret entered, and informed her of this.

She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands,
and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected
from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that
Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While
Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe
countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon
upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as
her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaret without a word
being uttered on her part, left the room.

As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is
going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for
you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal,
and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness
he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s
right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,”
continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination,
that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your
letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe
the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end
here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached
her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said,
“to exceeding low spirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief
has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery?
Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father,
an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it?
Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart,
that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for
itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are
now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in
this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with
your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made
early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but
you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s
blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale
a noble choice? What quality is there, whether of person or of mind,
in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I
do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an
offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him
that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear
you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud
looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge;
but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This
is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in
its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not
at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up
his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress
who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child.
No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or support me; but on my knees
here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to
me: I am very miserable.”

“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be
forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more;
and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words?
It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that
I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my
positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended
God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see
him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be
found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his
will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw
his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words,
trembling with passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left
her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.—

At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am
miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle.
Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon,
I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself
who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately.
You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but
in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say
you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.”

Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who
was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She
endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in the morning respecting
her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to
the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she
knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her
niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length
of time.

Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood
met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some
one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I
cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where?
How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too
early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He
turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given
yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh,
you know not what has passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled
contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the
dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of
art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I
shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there,
Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power:
do not lead me to infamy and ruin.”

Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion
in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no
rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of
suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore
testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his
heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with
disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is
it for such as you that I have consented to live? How different from her
I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the
husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon
his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it
would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from
malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled
with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached
too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half
suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever
cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You
will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and
excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to
either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.”




CHAPTER XXXI.


In the course of the day, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha “I have never sought
to win you to me after the manner other men might desire,” he said.
“I have respected your opinions; and I have resisted more than woman’s
feelings can conceive. But Calantha you have shared the struggle. I have
marked in your eye the fire of passion, in the quivering of your lip and
changing complexion, the fierce power which destroyed you. When in the
soft language of poetry, I have read to you, or spoken with the warmth
I knew not how to feign, you have turned from me it is true; but pride
more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. Every principle in your
heart is shaken; every tie that ought to bind thee most, is broken; and
I who should triumph at my success, weep only for thy fall. I found thee
innocent, confiding and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh God! wilt thou
thus be left? wilt thou know that thy soul itself partakes in thy guilt,
wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you have
given me a solemn promise to meet me in secret: it is the first time
concealment has been rendered necessary. I know your nature too well, not
to be convinced that you are already preparing to retract. Do so, if it
be your will:—I wish you not to take one step without fully appreciating
its consequences, and the crime incurred. I have never disguised to you
the guilt of our attachment since the moment in which I felt assured of
my own sentiments. I wished you to feel the sacrifice you were making:
how otherwise could I consider it as any? my love is worth some risk.
Every one knows my weakness; and did you feel half what you inspire,
you would be proud, you would glory in what you now attempt to hide.
The woman I love, must see, must hear, must believe and confide in no
other but me. I renounce every other for you—And, now that I claim you
as my own, expect the fulfilment of your many professions. Shew me that
you can be firm and true: give yourself to me entirely: you are mine;
and you must prove it. I am preferred before every earthly being in
my Calantha’s heart—my dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed I have
long ceased to entertain a single doubt; but now I require more. Even
in religious faith—even in hopes, in reliance upon the mercy of God, I
cannot bear a competitor and a rival.”

“There is a rite accounted infamous amongst christians:—there is an oath
which it is terrible to take. By this, by this alone, I will have you
bound to me—not here alone, but if there be a long hereafter then shall
we evermore be linked together: then shall you be mine far more, far
dearer than either mistress or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery of
superstition: but what on earth deserves a higher name? Every varying
custom and every long-established form, whether in our own land, or
those far distant tracts which the foot of man has rarely traversed,
deserves no higher name. The customs of our forefathers—the habit of
years, give a venerable and sacred appearance to many rites; but all is
a dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the frail perishable attempts of
human invention. Even the love we feel, Calantha—the beaming fires which
now stimulate our hearts, and raise us above others is but illusion—like
the bright exhalations which appear to mislead, then vanish and leave
us more gloomy than before.”

Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand was cold; no varying colour, no
trepidation shewed either life or vigour; there was a struggle in her
mind; and a voice seemed to call to her from her inmost soul: “For the
last time, Calantha, it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last time
I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience as it cries to thee for
the last time:—go not to thy ruin; plunge not thy soul into the pit
of hell; hurl not destruction upon thy head. What is this sin against
thy religion? How canst thou throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy
God? It is a mere mockery of words; a jealous desire to possess every
avenue of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee from every feeling of
remorse and virtue; to plunge thee in eternal perdition. Hear me: by
thy mother’s name I call: go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... “Am I
mad, or wherefore is my soul distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again to me:
my comforter—my heart’s friend, oh leave me not. By every tie thou art
bound to me: never, never will I forsake thee. What are the reproaches of
conscience—what the fancied pangs of remorse, to the glory, the ecstacy
of being thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, perhaps, by all who hear
my fate, I have lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity I may be
called upon to endure. Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. Thy words are
like the joys of Heaven: Thy presence is the light of life: existence
without thee would not be worth the purchase.—Come all the woes that
may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.”

The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She
would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.”
The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with
affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love
by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp,
as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the
affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.”

I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will
regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character
of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony
mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious
ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not
judge who cannot understand.

Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands
the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow
Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was
forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe,
that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a
culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s
house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death
for my sake.

Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of
offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits
of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was
all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier!
alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can
I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she
prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock:
she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for
the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but
he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within
was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not
thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the
signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.”




CHAPTER XXXII.


It was past three o’clock, when Calantha opened the cabinet where the
page’s clothes were formerly kept, and drew from thence his mantle and
plumed hat; and, thus disguised, prepared herself for the interview. She
slowly descended the stairs: the noisy revels of the servants might still
at intervals be heard: in a moment she glided through the apartments and
passages, till she found herself at the door which led to the terrace.
It opened heavily, and closed again with a loud noise. Alarmed, lest
she should be discovered, she flew with rapidity over the terrace and
lawn, till she approached the wood, and then she paused to take breath,
and to listen if all were silent.

Calantha walked fearfully onwards. The first night on which she had met
Glenarvon the moon was bright and full, and the whole scene was lighted
by its rays; but now, it was on the wane—the silver crescent shone alone,
and the clouds continually passing over it, cast fearful shadows upon
the grass. She found herself in the thickest part of the wood. She heard
a hollow murmur:—it was but the alders, waving in the wind, which made
a tremulous noise like voices whispering at a distance. She passed on,
and the recollection that it was to Glenarvon that she was hastening,
and that it was probably for the last time, made her indifferent to her
fate, and rendered her fearless. Besides, the desperate and the guilty
never fear: a deeper feeling renders them callous to all beside—a spirit
of defiance deadens in them the very edge of apprehension. She proceeded
to the appointed place. The sea dashed against the cliff below; and
the bleak wind whistled through the ruined chapel as it came in hollow
blasts over the heath.

Calantha perceived Glenarvon. He was leaning upon one of the broken rocks:
he viewed, unawed, the melancholy scene before him. No superstitious
terrors had power to shake his soul: misery had done its utmost to subdue
him. Nor ray of hope, nor prosperity, could afford him comfort, or remove
his dejection. In the first transports of joy at seeing him, she darted
towards him; but when she marked the paleness of his cheeks, and the
stillness of his attitude, she started back, and advanced slowly: for
she feared to disturb him.

The evening breeze had blown back his dark locks, and bared his pale
forehead, upon which the light of the moonbeam fell. She gazed upon
him; and while she contemplated the beautiful majesty of his figure,
his fixed and mournful eyes, his countenance so fraught with feeling,
she approached him. “My friend, my lover,” she said. “Ah! my little
trembling page, my Zerbellini, welcome to my heart,” he answered: “I
knew you would not fail; but I have waited for you till every bright
illusion of hope has been changed into visions of despondency and fear.
We meet now: but is it indeed to part no more! Glenarvon is yours, and
shall never be severed from you.”

“Ah! triumph over yourself and me,” she cried, clasping her hands in
agony. “Ask any sacrifice but this. Do not make me contemptible to you
and to myself.” “Calantha, the time for safety is past: it is too late
now. I have linked my soul to yours; I love you in defiance of myself;
I know it to be guilt, and to be death; but it must be. We follow but
the dark destiny that involves us: we cannot escape from fate. For you
alone I live:—be now but mine. They tell you of misery, of inconstancy,
of lovers’ perjuries, from the olden time; but you shall prove them
false. You leave much, it is true—rank, fame and friends, a home and the
dearest ties of a mother’s heart—children; but have you not embittered
all that you relinquish? Say that I yield you up and fly,—to what fate
shall I then consign you? to what endless repining, unjoyous solitary
hours—remorse, regret, the bitter taunt of friends, the insulting scorn
of strangers, and, worse than all—O! worse than all the recoiling heart
can endure, the unsuspicious confidence and caresses of an injured
husband, of him you have already betrayed. O Calantha, turn from these
to a lover’s bosom; seek for comfort here; and now, even now, accompany
me in my flight ..................................”

“I will leave all for you:—I love but you: be you my master.” Scarce
had she uttered the impious oath which bound her to him, when her heart,
convulsed with terror, ceased to beat. “Tis but in words—oh God! ’tis but
in words, that thy guilty servant has offended. No—even in the delirium
of passion, even in the transports of love, the fear of thy vengeance
spake terrors into her soul, and ingratitude for all thy favours was
not to be numbered with her sins.” But the oath which she had taken was
terrible. She considered herself as no longer under the protection of
her God. She trembled exceedingly; and fear for one moment overpowered
her. Lord Glenarvon looked upon her, mournfully, as if sorry for the sin
which he had cast upon her soul. “Now,” he said, “you will look back
upon these moments, and you will consider me with abhorrence. I have
led you with me to ruin and remorse.” “On me—on me, be the sin; let it
fall upon me alone,” she replied; “but if, after this, you forsake me,
then shall the vengeance of God be satisfied—the measure of my crime be
at its full. It is not in my power—I cannot forsake you now: I will go
with you, Glenarvon, if it were to certain death and ruin. I am yours
alone. But this night I must return home,” she said. “I will not leave
my father thus—I will not cause my aunt’s death.” “If you leave me now
I shall lose you.” “O Glenarvon, let me return; and after seeing them
once again, I will follow you firm until death.”

He placed a ring upon her finger. “It is a marriage bond,” he said;
“and if there be a God, let him now bear witness to my vows:—I here,
uncompelled by menace, unsolicited by entreaty, do bind myself through
life to you. No other, in word or thought, shall ever hold influence or
power over my heart. This is no lover’s oath—no profession which the
intoxication of passion may extort: it is the free and solemn purpose
of a soul conquered and enchained by you. Oh Calantha, beloved, adored,
look upon me, and say that you believe me. Lean not upon a lover’s bosom,
but upon a friend, a guardian and protector, a being wholly relying on
your mercy and kindness. My love, my soul, look yet once upon me.”

“Why fall our tears? Is it in terror of approaching evil, or in regret
for involuntary error? My bosom’s comfort, my soul’s idol, look not thus
coldly on me; for I deserve it not. Your will is mine: lead me as it
delights your fancy: I am a willing slave.” “If you abandon me,” said
Calantha, in tears. “May the curse of God burn my heart and consume me!
may every malediction and horror fall tenfold upon my head! may phrenzy
and madness come upon my senses! and tortures in this world and the next
be my portion, if ever I change my sentiments towards you!”

With words like these, Glenarvon silenced her as she returned to the
castle; and, strange as it may seem, untroubled sleep—such sleep as in
better days she once enjoyed, fell upon all her senses, quieted every
passion, and obliterated, for a few hours, the scenes of guilt which
tortured her with their remembrance.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


To wake is terrible when the heaviness of sin is upon us!—to wake, and
see every object around us the same as before; but to feel that we are
utterly changed! I am still in a father’s house, she thought, as late
the ensuing morning she opened her eyes. “My name is not yet branded
with disgrace; but I belong alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. Seymour
sent for her: the nurse entered with the children. But Calantha looked
upon the ring, and trembled.

Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, dressing in haste, entered Mrs.
Seymour’s room. Never had she found it easy to deceive till that moment.
To tell her the truth had been to kill her: she feigned therefore with
ease, for her aunt’s life required it, and she herself was desperate.
“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” she replied, nor
blushed at affirming it. “Two days, and you have not seen Glenarvon?”
she said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I thought one had killed
me,” replied Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” and she hurried from
her presence.

Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode out the whole of the day: it seemed
to her as if a moment’s pause or rest would have been agony unutterable.
And yet, when the spirit is heavy there is something unpleasant in the
velocity of motion: throwing, therefore, the reins upon her well-trained
steed, she paced slowly over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections
which it had been pain to interrupt.

Suddenly a horse and rider, in full speed, darting along the moor,
approached and crossed upon her path. “Whither ride you lady, so slow?”
said Miss St. Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce reining in her swift
footed charger. “And whither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said Calantha,
courteously returning her salute. “To perdition,” cried Elinor; “and
they that wish to follow must ride apace.” The hat and plume of sacred
green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, were all but too well
observed by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. Clara, fixing her dark
eyes upon her, asked her respecting him. “Is thy young lover well?” she
said; “and wilt thou be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: he
could not rest: didst thou?” Saying which, she smiled, and rode away.

Oppressed with many bitter doubts, Calantha returned to the Castle; and
what is strange, she felt coldly towards Glenarvon. On her return, she
found letters from him far the most ardent, the most impassioned she
had yet received. He spoke with grief of her unkindness: he urged her
by every tie most dear, most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. Yet,
that night, she went not to meet him; she wrote not kindly; she loved
not. She retired early; and her thoughts were painful and terrible. But
such is the inconsistency of the human heart; her coldness seemed but
to encrease his ardour. She received that night, the warmest, the most
unguarded letters; she even now dreaded the violence of his attachment.
Remorse, she felt, had taken the place of passion in her own heart: for
all within was chilled, was changed.

As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling to think—unable to forget,
she heard a step stealing along the passage; and in a moment Glenarvon
entered her apartment. “We are lost,” she cried. “I care not,” he said,
“so that I but see you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak lower,”
he said, approaching her: “be calm, for think you that when you have
risked so much for me, I dare not share the danger. After all, what is
it? Whoever enters must do it at their peril: their life shall pay the
forfeit: I am armed.”—“Good God! how terrible are your looks: I love
you; but I fear you.”

“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, “that day when I first told you of my
love? You blushed then, and wept: did you not? But you have forgotten
to do either now. Why, then, this strange confusion?”—“I am sick at
heart. Leave me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear of all earthly beings,
turn not thus away from me; look not as if you feared to meet me; feel
not regret; for if it be a crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me alone.
I know how men of the world can swear and forswear: I know, too, how
much will be attempted to sever you from me: but by that God in whose
sacred eye we stand; by all that the human heart and soul can believe
and cherish, I am not one of that base kind, who would ever betray the
woman that trusted in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, I could not
change. You are all on earth that I love, and, perhaps what is better
worth, that I esteem and respect—that I honor as above every other in
goodness, purity and generous noble feelings. O! think not so humbly
of yourself: say not that you are degraded. My admiration of you shall
excuse your error: my faithful attachment whilst existence is given to
either of us shall atone for all. Look on me, my only friend; dry up
the tears that fall for an involuntary fault; and consider me as your
protector, your lover, your husband.”

There required not many words, not many protestations. Calantha wept
bitterly; but she felt happy. “If you change now,” she said, “what will
become of me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, from this country: I ask
not for other ties than those that already bind us. Yet I once more
repeat it, I know you must despise me.”—“What are words and vows, my
heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what are they? The false, the vain, the
worldly-minded have made use of them; but I must have recourse to them,
Calantha, since you can look at me, and yet mistrust me. No villany that
ever yet existed, can exceed that which my falsehood to you would now
evince. This is no common worldly attachment: no momentary intoxication of
passion. Often I have loved: many I have seen; but none ever sacrificed
for me what you have done; and for none upon earth did I ever feel what
I do for you. I might have made you mine long ago: perhaps I might have
abused the confidence shewn me, and the interest and enthusiasm I had
created; but, alas! you would then have despised me. I conquered myself;
but it was to secure you more entirely. I am yours only: consent therefore
to fly with me. Make any trial you please of my truth. What I speak I
have written: my letters you may shew, my actions you may observe and
sift. I have not one thought that is unknown to you—one wish, one hope
of which you are not the first and sole object. Many disbelieve that I
am serious in my desire that you should accompany me in my flight. They
know me not: I have no views, no projects. Men of the world look alone
to fortune, fame, or interest; but what am I? The sacrifice is solely on
your part: I would to God it were on mine. If even you refuse to follow
me, I will not make this a plea for abandoning you: I will hover around,
will protect, will watch over you. Your love makes my happiness: it is
my sole hope in life. Even were you to change to me, I could not but be
true to you.”

Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to accompany him: he risked much;
and seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding the guileful
heart; and he who had deceived many, could assuredly deceive her. Yet
it appears, that he urged her more than ever to fly with him; and that
when, at length she said that her resolution was fixed—that she would
go, his eyes in triumph gloried in the assurance; and with a fervour he
could not have feigned he called her his. Hitherto, some virtuous, some
religious hopes, had still sustained her: now all ceased; perversion
led the way to crime, and hardness of heart and insensibility followed.

One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her confessions of former scenes.
One by one, he betrayed to her the confidence others had reposed in his
honour. She saw the wiles and windings of his mind, nor abhorred them:
she heard his mockery of all that is good and noble; nor turned from
him. Is it the nature of guilty love thus to pervert the very soul? Or
what in so short a period could have operated so great a change? Till
now the hope of saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had led her on: now
frantic and perverted passion absorbed all other hopes; and the crime he
had commended, whatever had been its drift, she had not feared to commit.

Calantha had read of love, and felt it; she had laughed at the sickening
rhapsodies of sentiment, and turned with disgust from the inflammatory
pages of looser pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented every feeling
she most abhorred; and it was in herself, she found the reality of all
that during her whole existence, she had looked upon with contempt and
disgust. Every remaining scruple left her; she still urged delay; but
to accompany her master and lover, was now her firm resolve.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Glenarvon had retired unperceived by any, on the evening he had visited
her, in her apartment. The following day he appeared at the castle; they
both avoided each other: she indeed trembled at beholding him. “Meet me
at the chapel to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she obeyed too well.

They were returning through the wood: she paused one moment to look upon
the sea: it was calm; and the air blew soft and fresh upon her burning
forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... a female figure, passing through
the thicket behind, with a hasty step approached them, and knelt down
as if imploring for mercy. Her looks were wild; famine had stamped its
hollow prints in furrows on her cheeks; she clasped her hands together;
and fixing her eyes wildly upon Glenarvon, remained in silence.

Terrified, Calantha threw herself for safety at his feet; and he clasping
her closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh Glenarvon,” she cried, “look,
look; it is not a human form: it is some dreadful vision, sent to us
by the power of God, to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, fear not: no
power shall harm you.”

Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed for one moment on the thin and
ghastly form, that had occasioned her terror. “God bless you,” cried the
suppliant. He started at the hollow sound. It seemed to him indeed that
the awful blessing was a melancholy reproach for his broken faith. He
started: for in that emaciated form, in that wild and haggard eye, he
thought he recognized some traces of one whom he had once taken spotless
as innocence to his heart,—then left a prey to remorse and disappointment.
For the sake of that resemblance, he offered money to the wretch who
implored his mercy, and turned away, not to behold again so piteous, so
melancholy a spectacle.

Intently gazing upon him, she uttered a convulsive groan, and sunk
extended on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon both flew forward to
raise her. But the poor victim was no more: her spirit had burst from
the slight bonds that yet retained it in a world of pain and sorrow.
She had gazed for the last time upon her lover, who had robbed her of
all happiness through life; and the same look, which had first awakened
love in her bosom, now quenched the feeling and with it life itself.
The last wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a curse for him who had
abandoned her: and the tear that he shed unconsciously over a form so
altered, that he did not know her, was the only tear that blessed the
last hour of Calantha’s once favorite companion Alice Mac Allain.

Oh! need a scene which occasioned her every bitter pang be repeated?—need
it be said that, regardless of themselves or any conclusions which their
being together at such an hour might have occasioned: they carried the
unconscious girl to the door of the castle, where O’Kelly was waiting
to receive them. Every one had retired to rest; it was late; and one of
Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly alone remained in fearful anxiety watching
for their return.

Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless form before her, Calantha
turned to Glenarvon. But his countenance was changed; his eyes were fixed.
“It is herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the sight, a faintness came
over him:—the name of Alice was pronounced by him. O’Kelly understood
his master. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the girl in
his arms, he promised Calantha to do all in his power to restore her,
and only implored her to retire to her own apartment: “For my master’s
sake, dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He was indeed no longer the
same subservient strange being, he had shewn himself hitherto; he seemed
to assume a new character, on an occasion which called for his utmost
exertion; he was all activity and forethought, commanding every thing
that was to be done, and awakening lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a
sense of their situation.

Although Lady Avondale was at last persuaded to retire, it may be supposed
that she did not attempt to rest; and being obliged in some measure to
inform her attendant of what had passed, she sent her frequently with
messages to O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy friend. At last
she returned with a few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. “Calantha,”
he said, “You will now learn to shudder at my name, and look upon me
with horror and execration. Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is Alice
whom we beheld. She came to take one last look at the wretch who had
seduced, and then abandoned her:—She is no more. Think not, that to
screen myself, I have lost the means of preserving her.—Think me not
base enough for this; but be assured that all care and assistance have
been administered. The aid of the physician, however has been vain. Calm
yourself Calantha: I am very calm.”

The maid, as she gave this note, told Calantha that the young woman
whom Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door of the castle, was poor
Miss Alice—so altered, that her own father, she was sure would not know
her. “Did you see her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly took me to see her,
when I carried the message to him: and there I saw my Lord Glenarvon so
good, so kind, doing every thing that was needed to assist her, so that
it would have moved the heart of any one to have seen him.” While the
attendant thus continued to talk, her young mistress wept, and having
at length dismissed her, she opened the door, listening with suspense
to every distant noise.

It was six in the morning, when a loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused
her hurrying down, she beheld a number of servants carrying some one
for air, into one of the outer courts. It was not the lifeless corpse
of Alice. From the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared a larger form,
and, upon approaching still nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving
that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, who having arisen to enquire
into the cause of the disquiet he heard in the house, had been abruptly
informed by some of the servants, that his daughter had been discovered
without any signs of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly and the
other attendants had pressed forward to assist him.

Calantha now leaving him in their hands, walked in trembling alarm,
through the hall, once more to look upon her unhappy friend. There leaning
against one of the high black marble pillars, pale, as the lifeless
being whom, stretched before him, he still continued to contemplate, she
perceived Glenarvon. His eyes were fixed: in his look there was all the
bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: and in that noble form, the
wreck of all that is great might be traced. “Look not thus,” she said,
“Oh Glenarvon: it pierces my heart to see you thus: grief must not fall
on one like you.” He took her hand, and pressed it to his heart; but he
could not speak. He only pointed to the pale and famished form before
him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt down by its side and wept in
agony, “There was a time,” said he, “when I could have feared to cast
this sin upon my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness and affection,
as I have done. But I have grown callous to all; and now my only, my
dearest friend, I will tear myself away from you for ever. I will not
say God bless you:—I must not bless thee, who have brought thee to so
much misery. Weep not for one unworthy of you:—I am not what you think,
my Calantha. Unblessed myself, I can but give misery to all who approach
me. All that follow after me come to this pass; for my love is death,
and this is the reward of constancy. Poor Alice, but still more unhappy
Calantha, my heart bleeds for you: for myself, I am indifferent.”

Gerald now returned, supported by O’Kelly. The other servants, by his
desire, had retired; and when he approached the spot were his child was
laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave him. He did so; and Mac Allain
advanced towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive a poor old man,” he said in
a faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, my lord: a father’s curse in
the agony of his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh lady Calantha,”
said the old man, turning to her, “lord Glenarvon has been very noble
and good to me; my sons had debts, and he paid all they owed: they had
transgressed and he got them pardoned. You know not what I owe to my
lord; and yet when he told me, this night, as I upbraided the wretch
that had undone my child and was the cause of her dishonor and death,
that it was himself had taken her from my heart; I knelt down and cursed
him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon the agony of a wretched father, a poor old
man who has lived too long.”

Calantha could no longer master her feelings; her sobs, her cries were
bitter and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly away. O’Kelly
insisted upon the necessity of her assuming at least some self command;
and whispering to her, that if she betrayed any violent agitation,
the whole affair must be made public: he promised himself to bring her
word of every minute particular, if she would for a few hours at least
remain tranquil. “I shall see you again,” she said, recovering herself
and approaching Lord Glenarvon before she retired: “You are not going?”
“Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I shall not leave the castle at this
moment; it would look like fear; but after this, my dearest friend, I do
not deceive myself, you cannot, you ought not more to think of me.” “I
share your sorrows.” She said: “you are most miserable; think not then,
that I can be otherwise.” “And can you still feel any interest for one
like me? If I could believe this, even in the bitterness of affliction,
I should still feel comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” “Never.
Oh would to God I could; but it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon,
more than ever, even were it to death. Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed
her hand, in silence; then following her “for your dear sake, I will
live,” he said. “You are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! how from my soul
I honour you.”

Calantha threw herself upon her bed; but her agitation was too great to
allow of her recurring in thought to the past, and fatigue once again
occasioned her taking a few moment’s rest.




CHAPTER XXXV.


When Lady Avondale awoke from her slumbers she found the whole castle in
a state of confusion. Lady Margaret had twice sent for her. Every one was
occupied with this extraordinary event. Her name, and Lord Glenarvon’s
were mentioned together, and conjectures, concerning the whole scene,
were made by every individual.

At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, the body of Alice was conveyed
to his own house, near the Garden Cottage. He wished no one to be informed
of the particulars of her melancholy fate. He came, however, a few
days after her removal, to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but mediately
admitted him. They talked together upon all that had occurred. He gave
her a letter, and a broach, which had been found upon the body. It was
addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was also a lock of hair, which seemed,
from the fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. The letter
was a mournful congratulation on his supposed marriage with a lady in
England, written at some former period; it wished him every happiness,
and contained no one reproach. The broach consisted of a heart’s ease,
which she entreated him sometimes to wear in remembrance of one, who had
loved him truly. “Heart’s ease to you—_mais triste pensée pour moi_,”
was engraved upon it. “You must yourself deliver these,” said Mac Allain
looking wistfully at Calantha. She promised to do so.

Mac Allain then drew forth a larger packet which was addressed to himself.
“I have not yet read it,” he said, “I am not able to see for my tears;
but it is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and when I have ended
it, I will give it to you, my dear lady, and to any other whom you may
wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of gratitude
and affection which you profess, and have shewn our family, do not let
any one read this but myself:—do not betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels
your sufferings: he more than shares them. For my sake I ask you this.
Keep this transaction secret; and, whatever may be suspected, let none
know the truth.—Say: may I ask it?”

Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. He wept in bitter anguish. “The
destroyer of my child,” he said, “will lead my benefactress into misery.
Ah! my dear young lady, how my heart bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she
turned away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” she said. “You may command;
but the news of my child’s death is spread: many are talking of it
already: I cannot keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord Glenarvon’s name
appear.” Mac Allain promised to do all in his power to silence every
rumour; and, with the help of O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. The
story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan first had carried her with him to
England, where she had fallen into poverty and vice. No further enquiry
was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself confided to many, the secret which
Calantha was so eager to conceal.

The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may be omitted by those who wish not
to peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to read it when Calantha had ended
it. He also took the broach, and pressing it to his lips, appeared very
deeply affected. After this, for a short time he absented himself from
the castle. The following pages, written by Alice, were addressed to her
only surviving parent. No comment is made on them; no apology offered
for their insertion. If passion has once subdued the power of reason,
the misery and example of others never avails, even were we certain of
a similar fate. If every calamity we may perhaps deserve, were placed
in view before us, we should not pause—we should not avert our steps.
To love, in defiance of virtue is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the
safety of its victims, were a generous but useless effort of unavailable
interference. It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s fury—far beyond
human aid to quell. Calantha read, however, the history of her friend,
and wept her fate.


ALICE’S NARRATIVE.

“My dear and honoured father,

“To you I venture to address this short history of my unhappy life, and if
sufferings and pain can in part atone for my misconduct, I surely shall
be forgiven by you; but never, while existence, however miserable, is
prolonged, never shall I forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the rumour of
my disgrace has reached you, and added still severer pangs to those you
before endured. But oh! my father, I have, in part, expiated my offences.
Long and severe sorrows have followed me, since I left your roof, and
none more heart rending—oh! none to compare with the agony of being
abandoned by him, for whom I left so much. You remember, my dear father,
that, during the last year, which I passed at the castle, the attention
which Mr. Buchanan had paid me, was so marked, that it occasioned the
most serious apprehensions in Lady Margaret, on his account. Alas! I
concealed from every one, the true cause of my encreasing melancholy; and
felt happy that the suspicions of my friends and protectors were thus
unintentionally misled. I parted with Linden, nor told him my secret.
I suffered the severest menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; for I
knew myself guilty, though not of the crime with which I was charged.
At Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means to make my escape, or rather,
the mad attachment of one far above me, removed every obstacle, which
opposed his wishes and my own.

“But it is time more particularly to acquaint you, my dear father, by what
accident I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to whom my fate was linked—whose
attachment once made me blessed—whose inconstancy has deprived me of
every earthly hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained leave to pass
the day with you, that my brother, Garlace, took me with him in his boat,
down the river Allan, and Roy and yourself were talking eagerly of the
late affray which had taken place in our village. I then pointed out to
you the ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you the history of its
unhappy owners. My father, that evening, when yourself and Roy were gone
on shore, my brother Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me down the
current with the wind: and as we passed near the banks from behind the
rocks, we heard soft low notes, such as they say spirits sing over the
dead; and as we turned by the winding shore, we soon perceived a youth
who was throwing pebbles into the stream, and ever whilst he threw them,
he continued singing in that soft, sweet manner I have said. He spoke
with us, and the melancholy sound of his voice, attracted us towards him.
We landed close by the place near which he stood. He accompanied us to
the front of the castle; but then entreating us to excuse his proceeding
further, he retired; nor told us who he was. From that day, I met him
in secret. Oh! that I had died before I had met with one so young, so
beautiful, but yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save him: my feeble
help could not reclaim him: it was like one who clasped a drowning man,
and fell with him in the struggle: he had cast sin and misery upon his
soul. Never will I soil these pages with the record of what he uttered;
his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; and soon, most soon shall
I perish with them....”

Calantha paused in the narrative; she gasped for breath; and wiping away
the tears which struggled in her eyes: “If he treated my friend with
unkindness,” she said, “dear as he has hitherto been to me, I will never
behold him more.” She then proceeded.

“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I am sick at heart. The rest of my
story is but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles of guilty love,
is but adding to the crime already committed. I accuse him of no arts
to allure: he did but follow the impulse of his feelings: he sought to
save—he would have spared me: but he had not strength. O my father, you
know Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, all that the most grateful
enthusiasm could feel; and for the sake of the son whom he restored to
you, you must forgive him the ruin of an ungrateful child, who rushed
forward herself to meet it. Unused to disguise my sentiments, I did
not attempt even to conceal them from him; and when he told me I was
dear, I too soon shewed him, how much more so he was to me. For when the
moment of parting forever came, when I saw my Lord, as I thought, for
the last time, you must not judge me—you cannot even in fancy imagine,
all I at that hour endured—I left my country, my home—I gave up every
hope on earth or heaven for him. Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have
suffered cruelly; and you, my father, when you read these pages, bless
me, forgive me. Turn not from me, for you know not the struggles of my
heart—you can never know what I have endured.”

Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; and paused again. She paced
to and fro within her chamber, in strong agitation of mind. She then
eagerly returned to peruse the few remaining pages, written by her
miserable, her infatuated friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. “The
God of Heaven will not, does not condemn her. Oh she was spotless as
innocence compared with me.”

“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted
with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him;
nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can
fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the
only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom.
Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded
by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I
will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s
mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the
three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother
of a child, and Clare, my little son, was dear to his father. But after
his birth, he forsook me.

“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends,
when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had
resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state
of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for
permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if
unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still
he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than
the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his
friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go
to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me
a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not.
Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,” I
said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die
upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a
fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are
going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep
in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his
arms....

“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a
misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous
illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that
my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had
provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to
follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates
of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s
whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helpless outcast, in my
own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well
known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to
enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt
to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy
hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My
letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every
thing, every thing was refused me....

“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my
Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by
ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains!
by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you
do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I
heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp of agony, I clasped the boy
to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have
the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my
power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s
pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for
support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my
shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of
his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see
him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have
I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk
me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father
cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more....

       *       *       *       *       *

“Linden had heard of my disgrace and misery; he had written to me, but
he knew not where I was....

“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of
a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend
of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised
to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before
you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the
malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon
hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I
alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear
father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St.
Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little
thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his
own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare
too; but I never saw Glenarvon....

     “From my miserable Lodging, Cork,
     Thursday Night.

“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking
heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us
back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over:
I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I
have lost every thing.

     “Sunday.

“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet
music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and
soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me;
but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes,
he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a
bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if
I see him—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I
am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish
to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd....

     “Tuesday Night, Belfont.

“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have
seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I
can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter
bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They
tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady
Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he
looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon
me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form,
he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it
could not be:—he did not know me; and I will see him again. If he will
but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child
still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your
heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write.
They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no
other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin,
I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale.
They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she
will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall
wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see
him again....”

And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received
from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected
kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and she was buried in the
church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave,
and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that
now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and
wild-goats, might not destroy it.

“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills
me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from
it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence
was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent
for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said
Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is
past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with
contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need
you thus confess them? and whatever your feelings, wherefore betray them
to the senseless crowd?

“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as
yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all;
but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal
the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to
the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint
upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the
contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know,
that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you
to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with
puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of
your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew
your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by the very exhibition of
your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love
your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply
rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You
know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied.
Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire
interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the
earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at
himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue.
The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and
bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware!
and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is,
what he has done. He is....”

“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened,
and he entered. He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed,
durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken
of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs.
Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not
shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful
countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she
observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the
air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him;
and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully
enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a
moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if
ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured
I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence
were prolonged, to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s
uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me.

“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least
in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud.
“Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,”
said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence,
frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own
utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly.
“She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s
heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply
interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized
her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating
her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You
shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, “She goes
with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are
married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady
Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.”

“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I
do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the
whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power
I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued
with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach
her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never
was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to
you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity;
for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”

“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a protecting tone, “are you not
vain?” “This Glenarvon has been the lover of many hundreds; to be thus
preferred is flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what consists
your superiority? You are not as fair as these; you are not perhaps as
chaste; but you are loved more because your ruin will make the misery
of a whole family, and your disgrace will cast a shade upon the only
man whom Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior to himself—superior
both in mind and person. This, child, is your potent charm—your sole
claim to his admiration. Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, point
out to him an object more worth the trouble and pain of rendering more
miserable and he will immediately abandon you.”

Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon Lady Margaret. The disdain of that
glance silenced her, she even came forward with a view to conciliate: and
affecting an air of playful humility—“I spoke but from mere jealousy,”
she said. “What woman of my age could bear to see another so praised, so
worshipped in her presence. It is as if the future heir of his kingdom
were extolled in presence of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, Glenarvon.
I know, I see you love her.” “By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried
exultingly, “with what furious rage the little tygress gazes on you. She
will harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, “if I do not carry her
from your presence. Come then Calantha: _we_ shall meet again,” he said,
turning back and pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s apartment. The
tone of his voice, and his look, as he said this were peculiar: nor did
he for some moments regain his composure.

Lady Margaret spoke a few words to Calantha that evening. “I am in the
power of this man,” she said, “and you soon will be. He is cold, hard
and cruel. Do any thing: but, if you have one regard for yourself, go
not with him.” “I know his history, his errors,” said Calantha; “but he
feels deeply.” “You know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a look of scornful
superiority, “as he wishes you to believe him. He even may exaggerate,
were that possible, his crimes, the more to interest and surprise. You
know him, Calantha, as one infatuated and madly in love can imagine the
idol of its devotion. But there will come a time when you will draw his
character with darker shades, and taking from it all the romance and
mystery of guilt, see him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, which the
light of genius, self-love and passion, have warmed at intervals; but
which, in all the detail of every-day life, sinks into hypocrisy and
baseness. Crimes have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, even by
noble minds, but Glenarvon is little, contemptible and mean. He unites
the malice and petty vices of a woman, to the perfidy and villany of a
man. You do not know him as I do.”

“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignation burning in her bosom, “we
never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange one word with each other.
I renounce you entirely; and think you all that you have dared to say
against my loved, my adored Glenarvon.”

Lady Margaret sought Calantha before she retired for the night, and
laughed at her for her conduct. “Your rage, your absurdity but excite
my contempt. Calantha, how puerile this violence appears to me; above
all, how useless. Now from the earliest day of my remembrance can any
one say of me that they beheld me forgetful of my own dignity from the
violence of my passions. Yet I feel, think you not, and have made others
feel. Your childish petulance but operates against yourself. What are
threats, blows and mighty words from a woman. When I am offended, I
smile; and when I stab deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven.
Your friends talk of you with kindness or unkindness as it suits their
fancy: some love; some pity, but none fear Calantha. Your very servants,
though you boast of their attachment, despise and laugh at you. Your
husband caresses you as a mistress, but of your conduct he takes not
even heed. What is the affection of the crowd? what the love of man?
make yourself feared! Then, if you are not esteemed, at least you are
outwardly honoured, and that reserve, that self-controul, which you
never sought even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in alarm. Many hate
me; but who dares even name me without respect. Yourself, Calantha,
even at this moment, are ready to fall upon my bosom and weep, because
I have offended you. Come child—your hand. I fain would save you, but
you must hear much that pains you, before I can hope even to succeed.
Only remember: ‘_si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous mangera_.’” She
smiled as she said this, and Calantha, half offended, gave her the hand
for which she solicited.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


Mrs. Seymour was now extremely unwell, the least agitation was dreaded
for her. Calantha was constantly enquiring after her; but could not bear
to remain long in her presence. Yet at night she watched by her, when she
did not know of it; and though she had ceased to pray for herself, she
prayed for her. Could it be supposed that, at such a moment, any personal
feelings would engage Calantha to add to her uneasiness. Alas! she sought
in the last resources of guilt to alleviate every apprehension she might
cherish; she feigned a calm she felt not; she made every promise she
meant not to fulfil; she even spoke of Glenarvon with some severity for
his conduct to Alice; and when Mrs. Seymour rejoiced at her escape, she
pressed her hand and wept. Lady Margaret, from the day of their quarrel,
cold and stern, ever arose to leave the room when Calantha entered it,
and Mrs. Seymour seeing resentment kindling in her niece’s eye, in the
gentlest manner urged her to bear with her aunt’s humour.

Lord Glenarvon had not written to Calantha for some days; he had left the
castle; and she laboured under the most painful suspense. The narrative
of Alice’s sufferings was still in her possession. At length he sent
for it. “My Calantha,” he said, in a letter she received from him, “My
Calantha, I have not heard from you, and my misery is the greater, as I
fear that you are resolved to see me no more. I wish for the narrative
in your possession; I know the impression it must make; and strange as
it may appear, I almost rejoice at it. It will spare you much future
sorrow; and it can scarce add one pang to what I already suffer. Had
you accompanied me, it was, I will now acknowledge, my firm resolve to
have devoted every moment of my life to your happiness—to have seen,
to have thought, to have lived, but for you alone. I had then dared to
presume, that the excess of my attachment would remunerate you, for all
the sacrifices you might be compelled to make; that the fame of Glenarvon
would hide, from the eyes of a censorious world, the stigma of disgrace,
which must, I fear, involve you; and that, at all events, in some other
country, we might live alone for each other.—The dream is past; you have
undeceived me; your friends require it: be it, as you and as they desire.
I am about to quit Ireland. If you would see me before I go, it must be
on the instant. What are the wrongs of my country to me? Let others,
who have wealth and power, defend her:—let her look to English policy
for protection; to English justice for liberty and redress. Without a
friend, even as I first set foot upon these shores, I now abandon them.”

“Farewell, Calantha. Thou art the last link which yet binds me to life.
It was for thy sake—for thine alone, that I yet forbore. It is to save
thee, that I now rush onward to meet my fate: grieve not for me. I stood
a solitary being till I knew you. I can encounter evils when I feel that
I alone shall suffer. Let me not think that I have destroyed you. But
for me, you then might have flourished happy and secure. O why would you
tempt the fate of a ruined man?—I entreat you to send the papers in your
possession. I am prepared for the worst. But if you could bring yourself
to believe the agony of my mind at this moment, you would still feel
for me, even though in all else chilled and changed.—Farewell, dearest
of all earthly beings—my soul’s comforter and hope, farewell.” “I will
go with thee Glenarvon, even should my fate exceed Alice’s in misery—I
never will forsake thee.”

Calantha’s servant entered at that moment, and told her that Lord
Glenarvon was below—waiting for the answer. “Take these papers,” said
Calantha, and with them she enclosed a ring which had been found upon
Alice: “Give them yourself to Lord Glenarvon: I cannot see him.—You may
betray me, if it is your inclination; I am in your power; but to save
is not. Therefore, for God’s sake, do not attempt it....” The attendant
had no difficult task in executing this errand. She met Lord Glenarvon
himself, at the door of the library.

Upon alighting from his horse, he had enquired for Lady Margaret Buchanan;
before she was prepared to receive him, the papers were delivered into
his hands; he gave them to O’Kelly; and after paying a shorter visit
to Lady Margaret than at first he had intended, he returned to the inn
at Belfont, to peruse them. First however he looked upon the broach,
and taking up the ring, he pressed it to his lips and sighed, for he
remembered it and her to whom it had been given. Upon this emerald ring,
the words: “_Eterna fede_,” had been inscribed. He had placed it upon
his little favourite’s hand, in token of his fidelity, when first he had
told her of his love; time had worn off and defaced the first impression;
and “_Eterno dolor_,” had been engraved by her in its place—thus telling
in few words the whole history of love—the immensity of its promises—the
cruelty of its disappointment.

Calantha was preparing to answer Glenarvon’s letter: her whole soul was
absorbed in grief, when Sophia entered and informed her that the Admiral
was arrived. It was, she knew, his custom to come and go without much
ceremony; but his sudden presence, and at such a moment, overpowered
her. Perhaps too, her husband might be with him! she fell: Sophia called
for assistance. “Good God! what is the matter?” she said, “You have just
kilt my lady,” said the nurse; “but she’ll be better presently: let her
take her way—let her take her way.” And before Calantha could compose
herself, Sir Richard was in her room. She soon saw by his hearty open
countenance, that he was perfectly ignorant of all that had occurred;
and to keep him so, was now her earnest endeavour. But she was unused
to deceit: all her attempts at it were forced: it was not in her nature;
and pride alone, not better feeling prevented its existence.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that
he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where
he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with
his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he
performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then
assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day
at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had
been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of
joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told
her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with
the children, if all continued tranquil in those quarters. She spoke
this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her
whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had
been accustomed, that he could not but observe it.

Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll
be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children,
telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.”
“He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my
gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow
for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want
no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will
you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is
the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this
seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “Clarence Glenarvon,” replied the
boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,”
said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away.
“Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have
the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted
the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross
the rest of the day.

Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat
at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle.
It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was
not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch
Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred;
but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred
without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her from its
consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable
to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved,
without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill
conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead
of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance,
she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which
is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt
for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she
gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her
aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained
her one hour from Glenarvon.

On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning
Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of
dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a name too horrible
to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room;
and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of
passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found
a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,”
she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.”
Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or
their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom,
and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with
Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too,
inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now
must consider herself wholly unfit.

But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s.
“My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his
mother.” And she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme
astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She
was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known
lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused
from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate
exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s
request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter.
But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she
said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have
seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,”
repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself
to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The
Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no
answer; but desired her maid to take it away, and leave her. She did
not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message,
was in tears.

Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a
sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s
past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few
words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they
were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving
misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot
conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will
not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will
make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the
moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it
may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from
reflection; but it will overtake you when too late to recall the emotions
of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high
ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you
felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true,
how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and
you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder,
then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned
every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to
stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never
believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public
dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent,
it is not yet too late.”

“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter:
“it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with the agony of her passionate
grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not
stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious,
and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death
of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my
aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She
never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave....
These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony.
Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope
that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.”

The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the
dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered
her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be
repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge, to upbraid,
villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain.
She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her
mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go
not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had
best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at
last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite
lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much
agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.”

“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped
her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not.
“I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said.
“I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to
behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and God reward
you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You
will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from
you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind
to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no:
I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see
him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....”
“Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate,
or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you
will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest
impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother,
at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her
hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said
Mrs. Seymour. “I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will
never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single
words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.”
“I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing
herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave
you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of
them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha.

After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard,
without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good
emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of
contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called
away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the
greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing the company,
at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune
to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured;
and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very
devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.”




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the
children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any
consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited,
the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone,
informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to
Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none
of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these
goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend
upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change
your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see,
at hearing good English spoken to you; but I am not one who can talk
all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the
road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think
no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green
ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing
them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old
England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at
the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for
all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when
the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about
way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in
a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not
let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes;
and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will not bear with these
proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.”

“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this
unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from
this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here.
Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell
your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure
that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than
Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it
with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir
Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent
door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he
advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he
had not expected, left him, exclaiming as she went, “you have driven me
to this: tell them you have done it”....

       *       *       *       *       *

In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment
had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain
the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle
presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was
indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was
given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs.
Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the
enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken
unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon
and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and
so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibition every place was
searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success.

Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little
boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood
opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed
lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there
would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;”
sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion
and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for
her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must
say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs
were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at
first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse,
first recovering. “Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those
d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking
gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at
all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon
him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept
more audibly than before.

“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering
her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs.
Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning
sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she
received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply
and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to
her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all
others of bitterness. The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented
his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I
know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never
more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after
such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every
sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her
children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the
child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware.
Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to
all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she
will yet return.”

Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her
she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she
entertained. “Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady
Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to
comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her
in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her
feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The
Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her,
receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know
she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will
receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure
that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus.
Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would
you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh!
she is not there,” said the Duke. “She never will act in a manner we
must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most
ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony
around her.

The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—_all_
else I can forgive.”


END OF VOL. II.


LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET.