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diff --git a/old/68754-0.txt b/old/68754-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f9598c4..0000000 --- a/old/68754-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4573 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Glenarvon, Volume 1 (of 3), by -Caroline Lamb - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Glenarvon, Volume 1 (of 3) - -Author: Caroline Lamb - -Release Date: August 15, 2022 [eBook #68754] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 1 (OF -3) *** - - - -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: - benshees - combated - controul - empassioned/impassioned - encrease/increase - Glenaa/Glanaa - innoxtious - Mounteagle/Monteagle - Mowbrey/Mowbray - overweaning/overweening - pretentions - Trelawny/Trelawney - - Chapter IX is missing in the numbering sequence. - - “beaten tract” should possibly be “beaten track” - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - - - - GLENARVON. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. I. - - 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 town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived a learned physician of the -name of Everard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, misled by a fine -but wild imagination, which raised him too far above the interests of -common life, had squandered away his small inheritance; and had long -roved through the world, rapt in poetic visions, foretelling, as he -pretended, to those who would hear him, that which futurity would more -fully develop.—Camioli was the name he had assumed. - -It was many years since Sir Everard last beheld his brother, when one -night Camioli, bearing in his arms Elinor his child, about five years of -age, returned, after his long absence to his native town, and knocked -at Sir Everard’s door. The doctor was at the castle hard by, and his -lady refused admittance to the mean-looking stranger. Without informing -her of his name, Camioli departed, and resolved to seek his sister the -Abbess of Glenaa. The way to the convent was long and dreary: he climbed, -therefore, with his lovely burthen to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, -and sought temporary shelter in a cleft of the mountain known by the -name of the “Wizzard’s Glen.” Bright shone the stars that night, and -to the exalted imagination of the aged seer, it seemed in sleep, that -the spirits of departed heroes and countrymen, freed from the bonds of -mortality, were ascending in solemn grandeur before his eyes;—the song of -the Banshees, mourning for the sorrows of their country, broke upon the -silence of night;—a lambent flame distinguished the souls of heroes, and, -pointing upwards, formed a path of light before them;—the air resounded -with the quivering of wings, as with one accord innumerable spirits -arose, fanning the breeze with their extended plumes, and ascending like -a flight of birds toward the heavens. - -Then, for the first time, Camioli beheld, in one comprehensive view, the -universal plan of nature—unnumbered systems performing their various but -distinct courses, unclouded by mists, and unbounded by horizon—endless -variety in infinite space! Then first he seemed to hear the full -harmonious cadences of the angelic choirs—celestial music, uttered by -happy spirits in praise of the great Author of Existence, as directing -their flight onwards from sphere to sphere, from world to world, they -felt joyful in themselves, and rejoiced in the wonders and variety of -creation. - -From visions so wild, yet delightful, the soft sweet voice of his child -awoke him.—“How cold and dreary it is, dear father; how lone these -hills. I am weary unto death, yet I fear to sleep.”—“My comforter, my -delight, my little black-eyed darling,” said Camioli (enveloping his -child in his long dark mantle), “why do I thus sully the purity of -your nature by leading you to the abode of misery, and shewing you the -haunts of men! They are but as the flowers that blossom and wither, or -as the clouds that pass along to shade for a moment the brightness of -the heavens:—all here on earth is desolation and woe. But I will soon -take you, my lovely one, to a place of safety. My sister, the Abbess of -Glenaa, lives in the valley beneath the mountain: she will protect my -Elinor; and, in her mansion, my child shall find an asylum. I shall leave -you but for a short time; we shall meet again, Elinor;—yes, we shall meet -again.—Continue to live with St. Clara your aunt: obey her in all things, -for she is good: and may the God of Mercy avert from you the heaviest -of all my calamities, the power of looking into futurity.”—He spoke, -and descending the rugged mountain path, placed his Elinor according to -promise, under the protection of his sister the Abbess of Glenaa, and -bidding her farewell, walked hastily away. - -The morning sun, when it arose, shone bright and brilliant upon the -valley of Altamonte—its gay castle, and its lake. But a threatening -cloud obscured the sky, as Camioli raised his eyes and turned them -mournfully upon the ruined priory of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls -of Belfont.—“Woe to the house of Glenarvon!” he said. “Woe to the house -of my patron and benefactor! Desolation and sorrow have fallen upon -the mighty. Mourn for the hero who is slain in battle. Mourn for the -orphan who is left destitute and in trouble.... Bright shone the sun -upon thy battlements, O Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade thee a -last adieu. Cold are thy waters, Killarney; and many a tree has been -hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair mountain Glenaa, since the hour -in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is -that of the widow who is bereft of every joy.... Mourn for the house -of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute! No mother—no companion -of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering -smile.—There is not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land; -or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!” - -Thus sung the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills, -and the wind whistled through the arches and colonades of the Castle of -Belfont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—“Woe -to the house of our patron,” said the frenzied old man, as with bitter -tears he departed:—“even in this moment of time, the fairest star of -Belfont sets for ever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead -in a foreign country; and strangers hands alone perform her obsequies.” -He spoke, and looked, for the last time, upon the land that he loved, -then turned from it for ever.... Previous, however, to his departure -from Ireland, Camioli again sought his brother, (who was then an inmate -in the family of the Duke of Altamonte,) for the purpose of commending -Elinor to his care. - -Castle Delaval, the property of that nobleman, was situated in a valley -sheltered from every keen blast by a dark wood of fir and elm. The -river Elle, taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, flowed through -the park, losing by degrees the character of a mountain torrent, as it -spread itself between its rich and varied banks in front of the castle, -till it joined the sea beyond the Wizzard’s Glen. The town of Belfont -stands close upon the harbour, and from one of the highest cliffs, the -ruins of the convent of St. Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be seen, -whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, raising their lofty summits, capped with -snow, soar above the clouds. - -The abbey of Belfont, and the priory of St. Alvin, both the property -of the Glenarvon family, were now, in consequence of the forfeiture of -the late Earl of that name, transferred to Lord de Ruthven, a distant -relation. The deserted priory had fallen into ruin, and Belfont abbey, -as yet unclaimed by its youthful master, and pillaged by the griping -hand of its present owner, exhibited a melancholy picture of neglect and -oppression.—No cheerful fires blaze in its ancient halls; no peasants -and vassals feast under its vaulted roofs.—Glenarvon, the hero, the lord -of the demesne is dead:—he fell on the bloody field of Culloden:—his -son perished in exile:—and Clarence de Ruthven, his grandson, an orphan, -in a foreign land, has never yet appeared to petition for his attainted -titles and forfeited estates.—Of relations and of friends he has never -heard. - -Where are they who claim kindred with the unfortunate? Where are they who -boast of friendship for the orphan that is destitute and in trouble? The -Duke of Altamonte, whose domains were contiguous, and whose attachment -extended to the son of his ancient friend, had ofttimes written to -his sister enquiring into the fate of the child; but Lady Margaret had -answered her brother’s letters with coldness and indifference. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -It is the common failing of an ambitious mind to over-rate itself—to -imagine that it has been, by the caprices of fortune, defrauded of -the high honours due to its supposed superiority. It conceives itself -to have been injured—to have fallen from its destination; and these -unfounded claims become the source of endless discontent. The mind, thus -disappointed, preys upon itself, and compares its present lowliness with -the imaginary heights for which it fancies itself to have been intended. -Under the influence of these reflections, the character grows sullen and -reserved, detaches itself from all social enjoyments, and professes to -despise the honours for which it secretly pines. Mediocrity, and a common -lot, a man of this disposition cannot bring himself to endure; and he -wilfully rejects the little granted, because all cannot be obtained, to -which he once aspired. - -In this temper, the Duke of Altamonte had retired from public affairs, -and had quitted the splendour and gaiety of the court, to seek in -retirement that repose which, of all men, he was the least calculated to -appreciate or enjoy. In the society of the duchess, he found all that -could sooth his wounded spirit. In Mrs. Seymour, the duchess’s sister, -he welcomed a mild and unobtrusive guest; and the project of uniting the -Lady Calantha Delaval, his only daughter, to her cousin William Buchanan, -heir presumptive to the Dukedom of Altamonte, and son of his sister Lady -Margaret Buchanan, for some time occupied his hours and engrossed his -attention. - -To forward this favourite object, he communicated to them both, that -they were destined for each other; and by employing them in the same -occupations, instructing them in the same studies, by the same masters, -and in every way contriving that they should be continually together he -hoped that early habits, and the first affections of childhood, might -unite their hearts in indissoluble bonds. But how short-sighted, how -little founded in a right knowledge of human nature, was this project! -Habituated to the intimacy which subsists between near relations, was -it probable that love, when the age of that passion arrived, would be -content with objects thus familiar; and that the feelings of the heart -would quietly acquiesce in an arrangement which had been previously formed -upon the calculations of interest and family pride?—On the contrary, the -system pursued in their education, accustomed them to give way to their -violent tempers, without restraint, in their intercourse with each other; -and the frequent recurrence of petty quarrels, soon produced sentiments, -which bordered on dislike; so that at the moment, when the Duke exulted -most in the success of his project, he was painfully undeceived. - -Happily, a new event which occurred at this time in the family of the -Duke of Altamonte, soon turned his thoughts from the failure of his -present system of education, the superintendence of which he relinquished -with as much readiness, as he had once shewn anxiety to undertake -it.—The Duchess, after a long period of ill health, was pronounced by -her physicians to be once more in a situation to realize her husband’s -most sanguine hopes.—“If I have a boy,” he cried, “from the hour of his -birth all I possess shall be his. Give me but a son, ye powers who rule -over destiny, and I am content to yield up every other claim, privilege -and possession.”—The wish was heard, and at the appointed time, the -Duchess of Altamonte, after a few hours illness, was delivered of a son -and heir. It was in vain for the Duke, that until this event he said to -himself daily as he arose from his stately bed, that none other was his -rival in wealth or power;—it was in vain that friends surrounded him, -and flatterers attended upon his least commands:—until this unexpected, -and almost unhoped for event, he could not be said to have enjoyed -one hour of felicity, so unwisely did he blind himself to every other -blessing which he possessed; and so ardently solicitous did he suffer -his mind to become, for that one boon which alone had been refused to -his prayers. But since the birth of his son, he looked around him, and -he had nothing left to wish for upon earth; his heart became agitated -with its own satisfaction; and the terror of losing the idol upon which -every feeling and affection was fixed, rendered him more miserable than -he was even before the fulfilment of his wishes. - -The education of the lady Calantha and William Buchanan was now entirely -laid aside; the feuds and tumults in the adjacent countries were -disregarded; and he might be said to live alone in those apartments -where, robed in state, and cradled in luxury, the little infant lay -helpless and unconscious of its honours and importance. Not a breath of -air was suffered to blow too rudely upon the most noble and illustrious -Sidney Albert, Marquis of Delaval. The tenants and peasantry flocked, -from far and near, to kneel and do him homage, gazing in stupid wonder on -their future Lord. The Duchess feebly resisted the general voice, which -encouraged an excess of care, hurtful to the health of him, whom all -were but too solicitous to preserve. Yet the boy flourished, unaffected -by this adulation, the endless theme of discussion, the constant object -of still increasing idolatry. - -Without delay, the Duke resolved to intimate to his sister, Lady Margaret -Buchanan, who was at Naples, the change which had taken place in her -son’s expectations. He felt the necessity of softening the disappointment -by every soothing expression; and, as he loved her most sincerely he -wrote to urge her immediate return, with all the warmth of fraternal -affection;—informing her at the same time of the circumstance which -at once occasioned his delight, and her disappointment. With what fond -overweaning vanity did he then flatter himself, that she, who was the -next dearest object of his affections, would share his present joy; and -forgetful of the entire ruin of her fondest hope, doat like him upon the -child who had deprived her son of all his expectations! He knew not Lady -Margaret:—less than any other, he knew that fierce spirit which never -yet had been controuled—which deemed itself born to command, and would -have perished sooner than have endured restraint. - -At this very period of time, in the prosecution of her sudden and accursed -designs, having bade adieu to brighter climes and more polished manners, -with all the gaiety of apparent innocence, and all the brilliancy of wit -which belong to spirits light as air and a refined and highly cultivated -genius, she was sailing, accompanied by a train of admirers, selected -from the flower of Italy, once again to visit her native country. With -their voices and soft guitars, they chased away the lingering hours; -and after a fair and prosperous voyage, proceeded, with their equipages, -horses and attendants, to Castle Delaval. - -Lady Margaret was received with delight at the house of her father, in her -own native land. A burst of applause hailed her first appearance before -the wondering crowd assembled to behold her. Fond of admiration, even from -the lowest, she lingered on the terrace, which commanded the magnificent -scenery of which Castle Delaval was the central object,—leaning upon the -arm of the Duke and bowing gracefully to the people, as if in thanks for -their flattering reception. Buchanan alone met his mother without one -mark of joy. Cold and reserved, from earliest childhood, he had never yet -felt attachment for any other being than himself; and fully engrossed by -the splendour with which he was at all times surrounded, he looked with -indifference on every event which did not promote or prevent his own -personal amusements. He saw many new guests arrive without experiencing -the slightest accession of pleasure; and when those departed whom he -had been in the habit of seeing around him, it seldom cost him even a -momentary regret. He had so long and so frequently been informed that he -was heir of the immense possessions now belonging to his uncle, that he -was overpowered by the sense of his greatness; nor did the commiseration -of his attendants, on his disappointed hopes, awaken him to the conviction -of the great change which had occurred since the birth of the Marquis -of Delaval. Indeed he seemed as indifferent on this occasion as on all -others. Yet whatever his errors, he was at least in person and manner all -that Lady Margaret could wish. She was also much pleased with Calantha, -and thought she traced, in her radiant countenance, some resemblance to -her own. - -The Duchess of Altamonte had, in mind and person, won the affections -of all who approached her. She had a countenance in which languor and -delicacy added sensibility and grace, to beauty,—an air of melancholy -half veiled in smiles of sweetness,—and a form soft and fragile as the -bright fictions of a poet’s dream; yet a visible sadness had fallen upon -her spirits, and whilst she appeared alone to sooth and bless every other -heart, she seemed herself in need of consolation. Lady Margaret’s beauty -irresistibly attracted; her wit enlivened; and her manners fascinated—but -the dreadful secrets of her heart appalled! - -Lady Margaret was not much liked by Mrs. Seymour, nor by many other of -the guests who frequented the castle. Her foreign domestics, her splendid -attire, her crafty smiles and highly polished manners,—all were in turn -criticised and condemned. But neither prejudice nor vulgarity received -from her lips the slightest censure. She did not even appear to see the -ill will shewn to her. Yet many thought the discords and disasters which -occurred after her arrival in Ireland, were the fruits of her intriguing -spirit, and all soon or late regretted her presence at the castle, till -then, the seat of uninterrupted harmony and almost slumberous repose. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Lady Margaret Delaval, only surviving sister of the Duke of Altamonte, -was born in Ireland, where she remained until her marriage with Captain -Buchanan. She then established herself at Naples; the fleet in which -her husband served being stationed in the Mediterranean sea. After the -birth of her son William, she immediately sent him to Ireland, there -to receive, under her brother’s tuition, an education more fitting the -heir of Altamonte, and the future husband of Lady Calantha Delaval. - -Freed from the last tie which had bound her to one feeling of honour -or of virtue, she, without remorse, gave way during the absence of -her child and husband (who accompanied the boy to Ireland) to a life -of extravagance and vice, ensnaring the inexperienced by her art, and -fascinating the most wary by her beauty and her talents. The charms of -her person and the endowments of her mind were worthy of a better fate -than that which she was preparing for herself. But, under the semblance -of youthful gaiety, she concealed a dark intriguing spirit, which could -neither remain at rest, nor satisfy itself in the pursuit of great and -noble objects. She had been hurried on by the evil activity of her own -mind, until the habit of crime had overcome every scruple, and rendered -her insensible to repentance, and almost to remorse. In this career, -she had improved to such a degree her natural talent of dissimulation, -that, under its impenetrable veil, she was able to carry on securely her -darkest machinations; and her understanding had so adapted itself to her -passions, that it was in her power to give, in her own eyes, a character -of grandeur, to the vice and malignity, which afforded an inexplicable -delight to her depraved imagination. - -While she was thus indulging her disgraceful inclinations, her heart -became attached with all her characteristic violence to Lord Dartford, -a young English nobleman, who had accompanied the Countess of Glenarvon -to Naples, and who, after passing some months in her society, had -already made her the offer of his hand. He no sooner, however, beheld -Lady Margaret than he left that object of his first attachment; and the -short-lived happiness of guilty passion was thus enhanced by a momentary -triumph over a beautiful and unfortunate rival.—Lady Glenarvon lived -not to lament it: the blow which was given by the hand she loved, went -straight as it was aimed; it pierced her heart; she did not long survive. - -Her son, already advancing towards manhood, she committed to the care of -the Count Gondimar, the only being who, amongst the numerous attendants -in the hours of her prosperity, had remained with her in this last -trying scene, and received her dying wishes.—“He has no father,” said -she, weeping in remembrance of the gallant husband she had lost; “but -to you I consign this jewel of my heart, the dear and only pledge of -my true and loyal love. Whatever crime I have committed since the loss -of Glenarvon, my only protector, let not a shade of it be cast upon my -son, to sully the bright splendor of his father’s fame! Promise a dying -mother to protect her child, should he be restored to his grandfather’s -titles and fortunes. To you, to you I entrust him. Ah! see that he be -safely conducted to his own country.” - -The Italian Count promised all that Lady Glenarvon desired; and wept -as he kissed the faded cheek of the English boy. But no sooner was the -momentary interest which he had conceived for the unhappy sufferer at -an end—no sooner had Lady Glenarvon expired, than, disregarding her last -request, he sought only to render himself useful and necessary to her son. -For this purpose he eagerly assisted him in all his pursuits, however -criminal, and whilst he lived upon the sums which were regularly sent -from Ireland to supply the necessary expences of his charge, he lost no -opportunity of flattering Lord de Ruthven, the present possessor of the -estate, and conniving with him in the means of detaining Glenarvon in -Italy, and thus depriving him of a great share of his property. Gondimar’s -lessons were, however, unnecessary; Glenarvon soon emancipated himself -from his tuition; and the utmost the base Italian could boast, was that -he had assisted in perverting a heart already by nature, but too well -inclined to misuse the rare gifts with which it had been endowed. - -Glenarvon passed the first years after his mother’s death, in visiting -Rome and Florence. He, after this, expressed a wish of entering the -navy; and having obtained his desire, he served under the command of Sir -George Buchanan. He even distinguished himself in his new profession; -but having done so, abruptly left it. - -Love, it was said, was the cause of this sudden change in Glenarvon’s -intentions.—Love for the most beautiful woman in Florence. Young as he -then was, his talents and personal attractions soon gained the object of -his pursuit; but a dreadful tragedy followed this success. The husband of -Fiorabella revenged the stigma cast upon his wife’s fame, by instantly -sacrificing her to his vengeance; and, since that fatal deed, neither -the chevalier nor Glenarvon had ever again appeared in Florence. - -Some said that the unhappy victim had found an avenger; but the proud and -noble family of the chevalier, preserved a faithful silence concerning -that transaction. Glenarvon’s youth prevented any suspicion from falling -upon him; and the death of Giardini was ascribed to another, and a more -dangerous hand. Strange rumours were also circulated in Ireland, after -this event; it was every where affirmed that Glenarvon had been secretly -murdered; and Lady Margaret, then at Naples, had even written to apprize -her brother of the report. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -About the time of the disappearance of Glenarvon, Captain Buchanan died; -and Lady Margaret expected that Lord Dartford would immediately fulfil -his engagement, and reward her long and devoted attachment to himself -by the offer of his hand. Count Gondimar was with her at the time. In -all companies, in all societies, the marriage was considered certain. -One alone seemed eager to hear this report contradicted—one who, dazzled -by the charms and beauty of Lady Margaret, had devoted himself, from -the first hour in which he had beheld her, entirely to her service. The -name of the young enthusiast was Viviani. A deep melancholy preyed upon -his spirits; a dark mystery enveloped his fate. Gondimar had, with some -coldness, introduced him to Lady Margaret. He was the friend of the lost -Glenarvon, he said, and on that account alone he had strong claims upon -his affection. Lady Margaret received the stranger with more than common -civility: his ill state of health, his youth, his beauty, were powerful -attractions. He confided his sorrows to her bosom; and soon he dared to -inform her that he loved. - -Lady Margaret was now more than usually attentive to Lord Dartford: the -day even for her intended nuptials was fixed. “Oh give not that hand to -one who values not the prize,” said the young Count Viviani, throwing -himself before her; “let not Dartford call himself your lord; his love -and mine must never be compared.” “Go, foolish boy,” said Lady Margaret, -smiling on her new victim: “I can be your friend as readily when I am -Lord Dartford’s wife as now.” Her young admirer shuddered, and rose from -the earth: “You must be mine alone:—none other shall approach you.” “The -disparity of our ages.” “What of that?” “Enough, enough. I will give my -hand to Dartford; my heart, you know, will still be at your disposal.” A -deep blush covered the pale cheeks of Viviani, he uttered one convulsive -sigh, and left her to ruminate on his hopeless fate; for every thing, -he was informed, was prepared for the approaching nuptials. - -But they knew little of the nature of man, who could conceive that Lord -Dartford had even a thought of uniting himself to Lady Margaret by any -lasting ties. On the contrary, he suddenly and secretly, without even -taking leave of her, departed for England; and the first letter which -she received from him, to inform her of his absence, announced to her, -likewise, his marriage with a lady of fortune and rank in his native -country. - -Lady Margaret was at dinner with a numerous company, and amongst them -the young count, when the letters from England were placed before her. -The quivering of her lip and the rolling of her dark eye might have -betrayed, to a keen observer, the anguish of a disordered spirit; but, -recovering herself with that self-command which years of crime and deep -dissimulation had taught her, she conversed as usual, till it was time -for her to depart; and only when in her own apartment, closing the door, -gave vent to the fury that opprest her. For some moments she paced the -room in silent anguish; then kneeling down and calling upon those powers, -whose very existence she had so often doubted: “Curse him! curse him!” -she exclaimed. “O may the curse of a bitter, and deeply injured heart, -blast every promise of his happiness; pursue him through life; and -follow him to the grave!—May he live to be the scorn of his enemies, the -derision of the world, without one friend to soften his afflictions!—May -those, whom he has cherished, forsake him in the hour of need; and the -companion he has chosen, prove a serpent to betray him!—May the tear of -agony, which his falsehood has drawn from these eyes, fall with tenfold -bitterness from his own!—And may this blooming innocent, this rival, -who has supplanted me in his affections, live to feel the pangs she has -inflicted on my soul; or perish in the pride of her youth, with a heart -as injured, as lacerated as mine!—Oh if there are curses yet unnamed, -prepared by an angry God, against offending man, may they fall upon the -head of this false, this cold-hearted Dartford!” - -She arose, and gasped for breath. She threw up the sash of the window; -but the cool air, the distant lashing of the waves, the rising moon and -the fine scene before her, had no power to calm, even for one moment, -a heart torn by guilt and tortured by self-reproach. A knock at the -door roused her from her meditations. It was the fair Italian boy, he -had followed her; for, at a glance, he had penetrated her secret. With -a smile of scorn he upbraided her for her weakness.—“What! in tears -lady!” he said: “is it possible? can a marriage, a disappointment in -love, overpower you thus!” Lady Margaret affecting a calmness, she could -not feel, and opposing art to art, endeavoured to repel his taunting -expressions. But he knew her thoughts: he saw at once through the smiles -and assumed manners which blinded others; and at this moment he watched -her countenance with malignant delight. It was the face of an Angel, -distorted by the passions of a Dæmon; and he liked it not the less for -the frailty it betrayed. - -It happened, however, that he had just attained the means of turning the -tide of her resentment out of its present channel, and, by awakening her -ambition—her ruling passion, of at once quenching the dying embers of -every softer feeling. “You have read I perceive,” said he, “but one of -the epistles with which you have been favoured; and I am already before -hand with you in hearing news of far greater importance than the loss of -a lover.”—The Duchess of Altamonte. “What of her?” “After a few hours -illness,” continued Viviani, drawing one of the English papers from -his pocket, “the Duchess of Altamonte is safely delivered of a son and -heir.” The blood forsook Lady Margaret’s lips: “I am lost then!” she -said: “the vengeance of Heaven has overtaken me! where shall I turn for -succour? Is there none upon earth to whom I can apply for assistance? -Will no one of all those who profess so much, assist me? Shall Dartford -triumph, and my son be supplanted? Revenge—revenge me, and I will be -your slave.” - -If the name of love must be given alike to the noblest and most depraved -of feelings, the young Viviani loved Lady Margaret with all the fervor -of which his perverted heart was capable. She had made him the weak -instrument of her arts; and knowing him too well, to place herself in -his power, she had detained him near her, by all the varying stratagems -of which she was mistress.—He now knelt before her, and, reading in -her fierce countenance her dreadful wishes, “I will revenge thee,” he -said, “yes it shall be done!” “Blood—blood is the price!” said Lady -Margaret. “Seal the compact thus:—be mine but for one hour:—let me fancy -myself blest—and: ....” “My son must be Duke of Altamonte,” returned -Lady Margaret, deeply agitated.—“He shall.”—“Swear it, my loveliest, my -youngest friend!”—“By the living God of Heaven, I swear it.”—“Ah! but -your courage will fail at the moment: your heart, intrepid as I think -it, will shudder, and misgive you.—Say where, and how, it can be done -with safety.” “Leave that to me: keep your own counsel: I will do the -rest.” He spoke, and left her. - -When they met again, the following day, not one word was uttered upon -the dreadful subject of their former discourse: the compact between them -was considered as made: and when once again the Count Viviani spoke -of his passion, and his hopes, Lady Margaret reminded him of his vow; -and a fearful silence ensued. Revenge and ambition had urged her to a -determination, which a sentiment of prudence inclined her to retract. -Viviani unconscious of her wavering resolution, enjoyed a momentary -triumph. “Is not this extacy?” he exclaimed, as he viewed the woman -he now considered as entirely bound to him. “Is it not rapture thus -to love?” “Revenge is sweet,” she answered. “Will you give yourself to -me Margaret? Shall I indeed press you to my burning heart! say—can you -love?” “Aye, and hate too,” she replied, as, convulsed with agony, she -shrunk from the caresses of her importunate admirer. - -From that hour he courted her with unremitting assiduity: he was the slave -of every new caprice, which long indulgence of every selfish feeling -could awaken. But the promised hour of his happiness was delayed; and -his passion thus continually fed by hope, and yet disappointed, overcame -in his bosom every feeling of humanity, till he no longer cherished a -thought that did not tend to facilitate the immediate gratification of -his wishes. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -It was not long after Lady Margaret’s arrival at the castle that Count -Gondimar, who had accompanied her to Ireland, prepared to return to Italy. -A few evenings before he quitted her, he sought the secret habitation of -his friend Viviani who had likewise followed Lady Margaret to Ireland, -but in order to facilitate his designs, had never openly appeared at the -castle. “How strong must be the love,” said Gondimar, addressing him, -“which can thus lead you to endure concealment, straits and difficulty! -return with me: there are others as fair: your youthful heart pictures -to yourself strange fancies; but in reality this woman is little worth -you. I love her not, and it is but imagination, which thus deceives -you.” “I will not leave her—I cannot go,” said Viviani impatiently: -“one burning passion annihilates in my heart every other consideration. -Ah! can it merit the name of passion, the phrenzy which rages within -me! Gondimar, if I worshipped the splendid star, that flashed along my -course, and dazzled me with its meteor blaze, even in Italian climes, -imagine what she now appears to me, in these cold northern regions. I -too can sometimes pause to think whether the sacrifice I have made is -not too great. But I have drained the poisoned cup to the dregs. I have -prest the burning firebrand to my heart, till it has consumed me—and -come what may, now, I am resolved she shall be mine, though the price -exacted were blood.” Gondimar shuddered. - -It was soon after this, that he returned to Italy. Before he departed, -he once more in secret affectionately embraced his friend. “She has -deceived me,” cried Viviani; “months have glided by in vain attempts to -realize her depraved wish. She evades my suit. But the hour of success -approaches:—to-morrow:——nay, perhaps, to-night.... If thou, Gondimar—oh! -if thou couldst believe: yet wherefore should I betray myself, or shew, -to living man, one thought belonging to the darkest of human hearts. -This alone know—I dare do every thing; and I will possess her. See, -she appears—that form of majesty—that brow of refulgent brightness. The -very air I breathe speaks to me of her charms. What matters it to me, -whilst I gaze entranced upon her, if the earth shake to its foundation, -and rivers of blood were streaming around me!—Pity me, Gondimar.—Pardon -me.—Farewell!” - -Hurried on by mad passion, Viviani, who constantly visited Lady Margaret, -was now upon the eve of fulfilling her wishes. Yet once, in the hope of -dissuading his savage mistress from her bloody purpose, he placed the -infant in her arms, and bade her take pity on its helpless innocence. -“See thy own—thy brother’s image in those eyes—that smile,” he whispered; -“ah! can you have the heart?” But Lady Margaret turned from the child in -haughty displeasure, thrusting it from her as if afraid to look on it; -and, for many days, would not vouchsafe to speak to the weak instrument -of her criminal ambition. Yet he, even he, whose life had been one -continued course of profligacy, who had misused his superior talents to -the perversion of the innocence of others, and the gratification of his -own ungoverned passions, shuddered at the thought of the fearful crime -which he had engaged himself to commit! - -His knowledge of human nature, and particularly of the worst part of -it, was too profound to depend upon any personal or immediate aid from -Lady Margaret: he, therefore, conceived a project which, by any one but -himself, would, in every view of it, have been considered as altogether -desperate and impracticable. It was, however, a maxim with Viviani, which -his practice and experience had justified, that nothing is impossible to -a firmly united league of time, money and resolution. Alone, he could -have accomplished nothing; but he had a satellite long trained in his -service, who possessed every quality which fitted him to assist the -designs of such a master. The name of this man was La Crusca. In spite -of a seeming wish to conceal himself, in conformity, perhaps, with his -master’s designs, this man was known at the castle to be a servant to -the count, and by his flattery and the versatility of his genius, had -become familiar with a few of its inhabitants; but shortly after his -arrival, he had been dismissed, and it was now three months and more -since his departure. - -One evening, according to custom, Viviani having secretly entered the -castle, sought Lady Margaret in her own apartment; his face was fearfully -pale; his hand trembled. He found her in company with her son, Buchanan, -and Calantha. Alarmed at his manner and appearance, the latter concealed -her face on the white bosom of her aunt, nor guessed by what storms of -fierce passion that bosom was disturbed. Viviani mistook the brilliant -hue which heightened Lady Margaret’s complexion for a softer feeling; he -approached her, and, gently removing the child, whispered vows of ardour -and tenderness in the ears of his mistress, and urged his suit with every -argument he could devise to overcome any remaining scruple. But when -he looked, in expectation of a favorable answer, he sprung back with -terror from her; for it seemed as if the fiends of hell were struggling -in her eyes and lips for looks and words with which to express their -horrid desire, already without the aid of words, but too sufficiently -manifest! At length, breaking silence, and rising in scorn from her -seat: “Have I not promised myself to you?” she whispered indignantly, -“that you thus persecute me for the performance of a voluntary vow? Do -you think your protestations can move, and your arguments persuade? Am -I a timid girl, who turns from your suit bashful or alarmed? Or am I one -grown old in crime, and utterly insensible to its consequence?—Nothing, -you well know, can make me yours but my own free will; and never shall -that will consign me to such fate, till the sickly weed is destroyed, -and the fair and flourishing plant restored to its wonted vigour and -due honors. See there, there is the image of my brother, of all that is -glorious and lovely.” As she spoke, she pointed to Buchanan.... “Lady, -the deed is already done! This night,” said the Italian, trembling in -every limb, “yes, on this fearful night, I claim the performance of thy -vow!” He spoke with an emotion she could not mistake.—“Is it possible?” -said she, “my beautiful, my beloved friend:” and his hand trembled as -he gave it her, in token of his assent.—Fearing to utter another word, -dreading even the sound of their own voices, after such a disclosure, -she soon retired. - -Was it to rest that Lady Margaret retired?—No—to the tortures of -suspense, of dread, of agony unutterable. A thousand times she started -from her bed:—she fancied that voices approached the door—that shrieks -rent the air; and, if she closed her eyes, visions of murder floated -before her distracted mind, and pictured dreams too horrible for words -half suffocated by the fever and delirium of her troubled imagination. -She threw up the sash of her window, and listened attentively to every -distant sound. The moon had risen in silvery brightness above the dark -elm trees; it lighted, with its beams, the deep clear waters of Elle. The -wind blew loud at times, and sounded mournfully, as it swept through the -whispering leaves of the trees, over the dark forest and distant moors. -A light appeared, for one moment, near the wood, and then was lost, Lady -Margaret, as if palsied by terror, remained fixed and breathless on the -spot;—a step approached the door;—it was the step of one stealing along, -as if anxious no one should hear it pass. Again, all was silent:—so silent -that the grave itself had not been more tranquil, and the dead could -not have looked more pale, more calm, more still, than Lady Margaret! - -But how was that silence broken? and how that calm disturbed?—By the -shrieks of an agonized parent—by the burning tears of a heart-broken -father—by the loud unrestrained clamours of the menial train; and that -proud mansion, so lately the seat of gaiety, whose lighted porticos -and festive halls had echoed to the song of joy and revelry, presented -now a scene of lamentation, terror and despair.—The heir of Altamonte -was dead—the hope so fondly cherished was cut off—the idol, upon whose -existence so many hearts were fixed, lay in his gilded cradle and costly -attire, affording a lesson impressive although every day repeated, yet -unheeded although impressive,—that it is the nature of man to rest his -most sanguine expectations upon the most frail and uncertain of all his -possessions. - -The women who had been employed to attend upon him were weeping around -him. His nurse alone appeared utterly insensible to his fate,—her eyes -were fixed,—her lips motionless,—she obeyed every command that was given; -but, when left to herself, she continued in the same sullen mood. Some -called her hard and unfeeling, as in loud accents they bewailed the dire -calamity that had fallen on their master’s house; but there were others -who knew that this apparent insensibility was the effect of a deeper -feeling—of a heart that could not recover its loss—of a mind totally -overthrown. - -She had arisen that morning at her accustomed hour, to take to her breast -the little infant who slept in the cradle beside her;—but lifeless was -that form which, a few hours before, she had laid on its pillow, in the -full enjoyment of health. Spasms, it was supposed, had seized the child in -his sleep; for his face was black and dreadfully disfigured. All efforts -to recover him were fruitless. Physician nor medicine could avail,—the -hand of death had struck the flower,—the vital spark was extinguished. - -It was in vain that the distracted mother, pressing his cold lips to -hers, declared, in the agony of hope, that they still retained a living -warmth.—It was in vain that she watched him till her eyes deceived, -fancied that they saw a change imperceptible to others—a breath of life -restored to that lifeless breathless form. It was in vain:—and floods -of grief, with the sad rites of a pompous funeral, were all which the -afflicted Duke and his sorrowing family had to bestow. - -The tenants and peasantry were, according to an ancient custom, admitted -to sing the song of sorrow over the body of the child: but no hired -mourners were required on this occasion; for the hearts of all deeply -shared in the affliction of their master’s house, and wept, in bitter -woe, the untimely loss of their infant Lord.—It was thus they sung, ever -repeating the same monotonous and melancholy strain. - - Oh loudly sing the Pillalu, - And many a tear of sorrow shed; - _Och orro, orro, Olalu_; - Mourn, for the master’s child is dead. - - At morn, along the eastern sky, - We marked an owl, with heavy wing; - At eve, we heard the benshees cry; - And now the song of death we sing; - _Och orro, orro, Olalu_. - - Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die; - Why would ye leave your parents dear; - Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here, - Nor listen to your people’s cry! - - How wilt thy mother bear to part - With one so tender, fair and sweet! - Thou wast the jewel of her heart, - The pulse, the life, that made it beat. - - How sad it is to leave her boy, - That tender flowret all alone; - To see no more his face of joy, - And soothe no more his infant moan! - - But see along the mountains side, - And by the pleasant banks of Larney, - Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide, - By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney: - - See how the sorrowing neighbours throng. - With haggard looks and faultering breath; - And as they slowly wind along, - They sing the mournful song of death! - - O loudly sing the Pillalu, - And many a tear of sorrow shed; - _Och orro, orro, Olalu_; - Mourn, for the master’s child is dead. - -Thus singing they approached the castle, and thus amidst cries and -lamentations, was Sidney Albert, Marquis of Delaval, borne for ever -from its gates, and entombed with his ancestors in the vault of the -ancient church, which, for many hundred years, had received beneath its -pavement the successive generations of the family of Altamonte. Heartfelt -tears, more honourable to the dead than all the grandeur which his rank -demanded, were shed over his untimely grave; while a long mourning and -entire seclusion from the world, proved that the sorrow thus felt was -not momentary, but lasting as the cause which had occasioned it was great. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -As sickness falls heaviest on those who are in the full enjoyment of -health, so grief is most severe, when it comes unexpectedly, in the -midst of happiness.—It was from this cause, that the Duke, more than any -one in his family, gave vent to the sorrows of his heart; and murmured -at the irrecoverable loss, by which he had been afflicted. The Duchess -in vain attempted to share, and lessen the regret of her husband:—he -had that haughtiness of mind which disdains all confidence, and flies -from all consolation. But of her far keener suffering, for the loss -she had sustained, little shew was made; for real misery delights not -in reproaches and complaints. It is like charity and love—silent, long -suffering and mild. - -There are virtues which admit of no description—which inspire on the first -mention of them but little interest. Great faults and heroic qualities, -may be pourtrayed; but those milder merits which contribute so much -to the comfort and happiness of life—that sweetness of disposition, to -which every hour that passes by, bears an approving testimony, can be -only felt, enjoyed and regretted. Benevolence that never fails, patience -under the heaviest calamities, firmness in friendship under every trying -change—these are among its characteristic features; and these were all -possessed by the Duchess of Altamonte, who seemed to live for no other -purpose than to endear herself to those who surrounded her. - -With this consideration for others, and forgetfulness of self, she had -apparently endured the loss of her son with greater fortitude, than had -been expected: indeed she sustained it with a degree of firmness which -religion alone could have inspired: she murmured not; but submitted to -the trial with the meek spirit of pious resignation.—“My dear, dear -boy, my pretty Albert” would sometimes escape her, and a few tears -would wait upon the exclamation; but her whole study was to share the -disappointment, and lighten the sorrows of her husband; as well as to -check the intemperate complaints, and soothe the more violent agitations -of Lady Margaret. - -But while the soul of the Duchess rose superior to the ills of life, -her constitution, weakened by a long period of ill health, and by the -agitations of extreme sensibility, was not in a state to resist so great -a shock; and though she lingered upwards of a year, the real cause of -her death could not be mistaken:—an inward melancholy preyed upon her -spirits, which she combated in vain.—“Many have smiled in adversity,” -she would say; “but it is left for me to weep in prosperity:—such is -the will of Heaven, and I resign myself as becomes me, to that power, -which knows when to give, and when to take away.” - -On her death-bed, she said to the Duke: “This is a hard trial for you -to bear; but God, who, when he sends trials, can send strength also, -will, I trust, support you.—You will pursue your career with that honour -and dignity, which has hitherto distinguished it—nor would my feeble -aid assist you in it; but I, on the contrary, like a weak unsupported -plant, must have drooped and pined away, had I lived to survive the -tender and faithful friend, who has guided and sustained me. It is far -better, as it is. You will be a guardian and protector to my Calantha, -whose quickness and vivacity, make me tremble for her. I could not have -watched over her, and directed her as I ought. But to you, while she -smiles, and plays around you, and fills the space which I so soon must -leave,—to you, she will prove a dear and constant interest. Never, my -dearest Altamonte, ah! never suffer her to be absent, if possible, from -your guiding care:—her spirits, her passions, are of a nature to prove a -blessing, or the reverse, according to the direction they are permitted -to take. Watch over and preserve her—are my last words to you.—Protect -and save her from all evil—is the last prayer I offer to my God, before -I enter into his presence.” ... - -Calantha! unhappy child, whom not even the pangs of death could tear -from the love, and remembrance of thy mother,—what hours of agony were -thine, when a father’s hand first tore thee from that lifeless bosom,—when -piercing shrieks declared the terror of thy mind, oppressed, astonished at -the first calamity, by which it had been tried,—when thy lips tremblingly -pronounced for the last time, the name of mother—a name so dear, so sacred -and beloved, that its very sound awakens in the heart, all that it can -feel of tenderness and affection! What is left that shall replace her? -What friend, what tie, shall make up for her eternal absence? What even -are the present sufferings of the orphan child, to the dreary void, the -irreparable loss she will feel through all her future years. It was on -that bosom, she had sought for comfort, when passion and inadvertence -had led her into error. It was that gentle, that dear voice, which had -recalled her from error, even when severity had failed.—There is, in -every breast, some one affection that predominates over the rest—there -is still to all some one object, to which the human heart is rivetted -beyond all others:—in Calantha’s bosom, the love of her mother prevailed -over every other feeling. - -A long and violent illness succeeded, in Calantha, the torpor which -astonishment and terror at her loss had produced; and from this state, -she recovered only to give way to a dejection of mind not less alarming: -but even her grief was to be envied, when compared with the disorder -of Lady Margaret’s mind.—Remorse preyed upon her heart, the pride and -hardness of which, disdained the humility of acknowledging her offence -in the presence of her Creator. - -The great effort of Lady Margaret was to crush the struggles of passion; -and when, at times, the agony of her mind was beyond endurance, she found -it some relief to upbraid the wretch who had fulfilled her own guilty -wishes.—“Monster!” she would exclaim, “without one tender or honourable -feeling, take those detested and bloody hands from my sight:—they have -destroyed the loveliest innocent that was ever born to bless a mother’s -wishes:—that mother now appears in awful judgment against thee:—out, -out, perfidious wretch!—come not near—gaze not upon me.”—Viviani marked -the wild expression of her eye—the look of horror which she cast upon -him; and a deep and lasting resentment succeeded in his breast, to every -feeling of attachment. Seizing her hand, which he wrung in scorn: “What -mean you by this mockery of tardy penitence?” he fiercely cried.—“Woman, -beware how you trifle with the deep pangs of an injured heart:—not upon -me—not upon me, be the blood of the innocent:—it was this hand, white -and spotless as it appears, which sealed his doom:—I should have shewn -mercy; but an unrelenting tigress urged me on.—On thee—on thine, be the -guilt, till it harrow up thy soul to acts of phrenzy and despair:—hope -not for pardon from man—seek not for mercy from God.—Away with those -proud looks which once subdued me:—I can hate—I have learned of thee -to hate; and my heart, released from thy bonds, is free at last:—spurn -me,—what art thou now? A creature so wretched and so fallen, that I -can almost pity thee.—Farewell.—For the last time, I look on thee with -one sentiment of love.—When we meet again, tremble:—yes—proud as thou -art, tremble; for, however protracted, thou shalt find the vengeance of -Viviani, as certain, as it is terrible.” - -“Is it possible,” said Lady Margaret, gazing upon that beautiful and -youthful countenance—upon that form which scarcely had attained to -manhood,—“is it in the compass of probability that one so young should -be so utterly hardened?” Viviani smiled on her and left her.—Very shortly -after this interview, he quitted Ireland, vainly endeavouring in the hour -of his departure to conceal the deep emotion by which he was agitated -at thus tearing himself from one who appeared utterly indifferent to -his hatred, his menaces, or his love. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -The habit of years, though broken and interrupted by violent affliction -or sudden prosperity, fails not in the end to resume its influence over -the mind; and the course that was once pursued with satisfaction, though -the tempest of our passions may have hurried us out of it, will be again -resumed, when the dark clouds that gathered over us, have spent their -fury. Even he who is too proud to bow his mind to the inevitable decrees -of an all wise Creator,—who seeks not to be consoled, and turns away -from the voice of piety, even he loses sight at length of the affliction, -upon which his memory has so continually dwelt:—it lessens to his view, -as he journies onward adown the vale of life, and the bright beam of -hope rises at last upon his clouded spirits and exhausted frame. - -From a state of despondency and vain regret, in which more than a year -had been passed, the inhabitants of Castle Delaval, by slow degrees, -revived; and the Duke, wearied of a life so gloomy and solitary, summoned, -as before, his friends around him. Lady Margaret, however, was no longer -the gay companion of his morning walks, the life and amusement of his -evening assemblies. The absence of Viviani filled her with anxiety; and -the remembrance of her crimes embittered every hour of her existence. -If she turned her eyes upon Calantha, the dejected expression of that -countenance reproached her for the mother whose life she had shortened, -and whose place she vainly exerted herself to fill; if upon the Duke, -in that care worn cheek and brow of discontent, she was more painfully -reminded of her crime and ingratitude; and even the son for whom so much -had been sacrificed, afforded her no consolation. - -Buchanan estranged himself from her confidence, and appeared jealous of -her authority.—He refused to aid her in the sole remaining wish of her -heart; and absolutely declined accepting the hand of Calantha. “Shall -only one will,” he said, “be studied and followed; shall Calantha’s -caprices and desires be daily attended to; and shall I see the best -years of my life pass without pleasure or profit for me? I know—I see -your intention; and, pardon me, dearest mother, if I already bitterly -lament it. Is Calantha a companion fitted for one of my character; and, -even if hereafter it is your resolve to unite me to her, must I now be -condemned to years of inactivity on her account. Give me my liberty; send -me to college, there to finish my education; and permit me to remain in -England for some years.” - -Lady Margaret saw, in the cool determined language of her son, that he had -long meditated this escape from her thraldom:—she immediately appeared -to approve his intention—she said that a noble ambition, and all the -highest qualities of the heart and mind were shewn in his present desire; -but one promise she must exact in return for the readiness with which -she intended instantly to accede to his request:—provided he was left -at liberty till a maturer age, would he promise to take no decisive step -of himself, until he had once more seen Calantha after this separation? -To this Buchanan willingly acceded; his plans were soon arranged; and -his departure was fixed for no very distant period. - -The morning before he left the castle, Lady Margaret called him to -her room; and taking him and Calantha by the hand, she led them to the -windows of the great gallery. From thence pointing to the vast prospect -of woods and hills, which extended to a distance, the eye could scarcely -reach, “all are yours my children,” she said, “if, obedient to parents -who have only your welfare at heart, you persevere in your intention of -being one day united to each other. Ah! let no disputes, no absence, no -fancies have power to direct you from the fulfilment of this, my heart’s -most fervent wish:—let this moment of parting, obliterate every unkind -feeling, and bind you more than ever to each other. Here, Buchanan,” -continued she, “is a bracelet with your hair: place it yourself around -Calantha’s arm:—she shall wear it till you meet.” The bracelet was -of gold, adorned with diamonds, and upon the clasp, under the initial -letters of both their names, were engraved these words: “_Stesso sangue, -Stessa sorte._” “Take it,” said Buchanan, fastening it upon the arm of -Calantha, “and remember that you are to wear it ever, for my sake.” - -At this moment, even he was touched, as he pressed her to his heart, and -remembered her as associated with all the scenes of his happiest days. -Her violence, her caprices, her mad frolics, were forgotten; and as her -tears streamed upon his bosom, he turned away, least his mother should -witness his emotion. Yet Calantha’s tears were occasioned solely by the -thought of parting from one, who had hitherto dwelt always beneath the -same roof with herself; and to whom long habit had accustomed, rather -than attached her.—In youth the mind is so tender, and so alive to sudden -and vivid impressions, that in the moment of separation it feels regret, -and melancholy at estranging itself even from those for whom before it -had never felt any warmth of affection.—Still at the earliest age the -difference is distinctly marked between the transient tear, that falls -for imaginary woe, and the real misery which attends upon the loss of -those who have been closely united to the affections by ties, stronger -and dearer than those of habit. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -The accomplishment of her favourite views being thus disappointed, or -at least deferred, Lady Margaret resolved to return to Italy, and there -to seek for Viviani. Her brother, however, entreated her to remain with -him. He invited his friends, his relations, his neighbours. Balls and -festivities once more enlivened the castle: it seemed his desire to raze -every trace of sorrow from the memory of his child; and to conceal the -ravages of death under the appearance at least of wild and unceasing -gaiety.—The brilliant _fêtes_, and the magnificence of the Duke of -Altamonte and his sister, became the constant theme of admiration; from -far, from near, fashion and folly poured forth their victims to grace -and to enjoy them; and Lord and Lady Dartford naturally found their place -amidst the various and general assemblage. To see Lord Dartford again, to -triumph over his falsehood, to win him from an innocent confiding wife, -and then betray him at the moment in which he fancied himself secure, -this vengeance was yet wanting to satisfy the restless fever of Lady -Margaret’s mind; and the contemplation of its accomplishment gave a new -object, a new hope to her existence; for Lady Margaret had preferred -enduring even the tortures of remorse, to the listless insipidity of -stagnant life, where the passions of her heart, were without excitement, -and those talents of which she felt the power, useless and obscured. -What indeed would she not have preferred to the society of Mrs. Seymour -and her daughters? - -The Duchess of Altamonte had possessed a mind, as cultivated as her own, -and a certain refinement of manner which is sometimes acquired by long -intercourse with the most polished societies, but is more frequently the -gift of nature, and, if it be not the constant attendant upon nobility -of blood, is very rarely found in those who are not distinguished by -that adventitious and accidental circumstance. - -Mrs. Seymour had many of the excellent qualities, but none of the rare -endowments possessed by the Duchess; she was a strict follower of the -paths of custom and authority; in the steps which had been marked by -others, she studiously walked, nor thought it allowable to turn aside -for any object however praiseworthy and desirable. She might be said to -delight in prejudice—to enjoy herself in the obscure and narrow prison -to which she had voluntarily confined her intellects—to look upon the -impenetrable walls around her as bulwarks against the hostile attacks -by which so many had been overcome. The daughters were strictly trained -in the opinions of their mother. “The season of youth,” she would say, -“is the season of instruction;” —and consequently every hour had its -allotted task; and every action was directed according to some established -regulation. - -By these means, Sophia and Frances were already highly accomplished; -their manners were formed; their opinions fixed, and any contradictions -of those opinions, instead of raising doubt, or urging to enquiry, only -excited in their minds astonishment at the hardihood and contempt for -the folly which thus opposed itself to the final determination of the -majority, and ventured to disturb the settled empire and hereditary right -of their sentiments and manners.—“These are _your_ pupils,” Lady Margaret -would often exultingly cry, addressing the mild Mrs. Seymour—“these -paragons of propriety—these sober minded steady automatons. Well, I mean -no harm to them or you. I only wish I could shake off a little of that -cold formality which petrifies me. Now see how differently _my_ Calantha -shall appear, when I have opened her mind, and formed her according -to _my_ system of education—the system which nature dictates and every -feeling of the heart willingly accedes to. Observe well the difference -between a child of an acute understanding, before her mind has been -disturbed by the absurd opinions of others, and after she has learned -their hackneyed jargon: note her answer—her reflections; and you will -find in them, all that philosophy can teach, and all to which science -and wisdom must again return. But, in your girls and in most of those -whom we meet, how narrow are the views, how little the motives, by which -they are impelled. Even granting that they act rightly,—that by blindly -following, where others lead, they pursue the safest course, is there -any thing noble, any thing superior in the character from which such -actions spring? _I_ am ambitious for Calantha. I wish her not only to -be virtuous; I will acknowledge it,—I wish her to be distinguished and -great.” - -Mrs. Seymour, when thus attacked, always permitted Lady Margaret to -gain the victory of words and to triumph over her as much as the former -thought it within the bounds of good breeding to allow herself; but she -never varied, in consequence, one step in her daily course, or deviated -in the slightest degree from the line of conduct which she had before -laid down. - -Sometimes, however, she would remonstrate with her niece, when she saw -her giving way to the violence of her temper, or acting, as she thought, -absurdly or erroneously; and Calantha, when thus admonished, would -acknowledge her errors, and, for a time at least, endeavour to amend -them; for her heart was accessible to kindness, and kindness she at all -times met with from Mrs. Seymour and her daughters. - -It was indeed Calantha’s misfortune to meet with too much kindness, or -rather too much indulgence from almost all who surrounded her. The Duke, -attentive solely to her health, watched her with the fondest solicitude, -and the wildest wishes her fancy could invent, were heard with the most -scrupulous attention and gratified with the most unbounded compliance. -Yet, if affection, amounting to idolatry, could in any degree atone for -the pain the errors of his child too often occasioned him, that affection -was felt by Calantha for her Father. - -Her feelings indeed swelled with a tide too powerful for the unequal -resistance of her understanding:—her motives appeared the very best, -but the actions which resulted from them were absurd and exaggerated. -Thoughts, swift as lightening, hurried through her brain:—projects, -seducing, but visionary crowded upon her view: without a curb she followed -the impulse of her feelings; and those feelings varied with every varying -interest and impression. - -Such character is not uncommon, though rarely seen amongst the higher -ranks of society. Early and constant intercourse with the world, and that -polished sameness which results from it, smooths away all peculiarities; -and whilst it assimilates individuals to each other, corrects many -faults, and represses many virtues. - -Some indeed there are who affect to differ from others: but the very -affectation proves that, in fact, they resemble the ordinary mass; and -in general this assumption of singularity is found in low and common -minds, who think that the reputation of talent and superiority belongs -to the very defects and absurdities which alone have too often cast a -shade upon the splendid light of genius, and degraded the hero and the -poet, to the level of their imitators. - -Lovely indeed is that grace of manner, that perfect ease and refinement -which so many attempt to acquire, and for which it is to be feared so -much too often is renounced—the native vigour of mind, the blush of -indignant and offended integrity, the open candour of truth, and all -the long list of modest unassuming virtues, known only to a new and -unsullied heart. - -Calantha turned with disgust from the slavish followers of prejudice. -She disdained the beaten tract, and she thought that virtue would be for -her a safe, a sufficient guide; that noble views, and pure intentions -would conduct her in a higher sphere; and that it was left to her to set -a bright example of unshaken rectitude, undoubted truth and honourable -fame. All that was base or mean, she, from her soul, despised; a fearless -spirit raised her, as she fondly imagined, above the vulgar herd; self -confident, she scarcely deigned to bow the knee before her God; and man, -as she had read of him in history, appeared too weak, too trivial to -inspire either alarm or admiration. - -It was thus, with bright prospects, strong love of virtue, high ideas -of honour, that she entered upon life. No expence, no trouble had been -spared in her education; masters, tutors and governesses surrounded her. -She seemed to have a decided turn for every thing it was necessary for her -to learn; instruction was scarcely necessary, so readily did her nature -bend itself to every art, science and accomplishment; yet never did she -attain excellence, or make proficiency in any; and when the vanity of -a parent fondly expected to see her a proficient in all acquirements, -suited to her sex and age, he had the mortification of finding her more -than usually ignorant, backward and uninstructed. With an ear the most -sensible and accurate, she could neither dance, nor play; with an eye -acute and exact, she could not draw; with a spirit that bounded within -her from excess of joyous happiness, she was bashful and unsocial in -society; and with the germs of every virtue that commands esteem and -praise, she was already the theme of discussion, observation and censure. - -Yet was Calantha loved—dearly and fondly loved; nor could Mrs. Seymour, -though constantly discovering new errors in her favourite, prevent her -from being the very idol of her heart. Calantha saw it through all her -assumed coldness; and she triumphed in the influence she possessed. -But Sophia and Frances were not as cordially her friends:—they had not -reached that age, at which lenity and indulgence take place of harsher -feelings, and the world appears in all its reality before us. To them, -the follies and frailties of others carried with them no excuse, and -every course that they themselves did not adopt, was assuredly erroneous. - -Calantha passed her time as much as possible by herself; the general -society at the castle was uninteresting to her. The only being for whom -she felt regard, was Sir Everard St. Clare, brother to Camioli the bard, -and late physician to her mother, was the usual object of ridicule to -almost all of his acquaintance. Lady St. Clare in pearls and silver; -Lauriana and Jessica, more fine if possible and more absurd than their -mother; Mrs. Emmet a Lady from Cork, plaintive and reclining in white -satin and drapery; and all the young gentlemen of large property and -fortune, whom all the young ladies were daily and hourly endeavouring -to please, had no attraction for a mind like Calantha’s. Coldly she -therefore withdrew from the amusements natural to her age; yet it was from -embarrassment, and not from coldness, that she avoided their society. -Some favorites she already had:—the Abbess of Glenaa, St. Clara her -niece, and above all Alice Mac Allain, a beautiful little girl of whom -her mother had been fond, had already deeply interested her affections. - -In the company of one or other of these, Calantha would pass her mornings; -and sometimes would she stand alone upon the summit of the cliff, hour -after hour, to behold the immense ocean, watching its waves, as they -swelled to the size of mountains, then dashed with impetuous force against -the rocks below; or climbing the mountain’s side, and gazing on the lofty -summits of Heremon and Inis Tara, lost in idle and visionary thought; -but at other times joyous, and without fear, like a fairy riding on a -sun beam through the air, chasing the gay images of fancy, she would -join in every active amusement and suffer her spirits to lead her into -the most extravagant excess. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Love, it might be conjectured, would early shew itself in a character -such as Calantha’s; and love, with all its ardour and all its wildness, -had already subdued her heart. What, though Mrs. Seymour had laid it -down as a maxim, that no one, before she had attained her fourteenth -year, could possibly be in love! What, though Lady Margaret indignantly -asserted, that Calantha could not, and should not, look even at any -other than him for whom her hand was destined! She had looked; she had -seen; and what is more, she believed the impression at this time made -upon her heart was as durable as it was violent. - -Sophia Seymour, Mrs. Seymour’s eldest daughter, in a month, nay in a -week, had already discovered Calantha’s secret:—the same feeling for the -same object, had given her an acuteness in this instance, with which -she was not at all times gifted:—She herself loved, and, therefore, -perceived her cousin’s passion. Calantha’s manner immediately confirmed -her in her supposition. She entered one morning into her room;—she saw -the unfinished drawing;—she could not mistake it—that commanding air—that -beaming eye—there was but one whom it could resemble, and that one was -Henry Mowbray, Earl of Avondale. She taxed Calantha bitterly with her -partiality; “But he thinks not of you,” she said, and haughtily left -the room. - -Admiral Sir Richard Mowbray was an old and valued friend of the Duke -of Altamonte. He had served with Sir George Buchanan, brother-in-law -to Lady Margaret. He had no children; but his nephew, the young Earl of -Avondale, was, next to his country, the strongest and dearest interest of -his heart. What happiness must the Admiral then have felt when he beheld -his nephew; and found that, in mind and person, he was distinguished by -every fair endowment. He had entered the army young; he now commanded a -regiment: with a spirit natural to his age and character, he had embraced -his father’s profession; like him, he had early merited the honours -conferred upon him. He had sought distinction at the hazard of his life; -but happily for all who knew him well, he had not, like his gallant -father, perished in the hour of danger; but, having seen hard service, -had returned to enjoy, in his own country, the ease, the happiness and -the reputation he so well deserved. - -Lord Avondale’s military occupations had not, however, prevented his -cultivating his mind and talents in no ordinary degree; and the real -distinctions he had obtained, seemed by no means to have lessened the -natural modesty of his character. He was admired, flattered, sought -after; and the strong temptation to which his youth had thus early been -exposed, had, in some measure, shaken his principles and perverted his -inclinations. - -Happily a noble mind and warm uncorrupted heart soon led him from scenes -of profligacy to a course of life more manly and useful:—deep anxiety -for a bleeding country, and affection for his uncle, restored him to -himself. He quitted London, where upon his first return from abroad he -had for the most part resided, and his regiment being ordered to Ireland, -on account of the growing disaffection in that country, he returned -thither to fulfil the new duty which his profession required. Allanwater -and Monteith, his father’s estates, had been settled upon him; but he -was more than liberal in the arrangements he made for his uncle and the -other branches of his family. - -Many an humbler mind had escaped the danger to which Lord Avondale had, -early in life, been exposed;—many a less open character had disguised -the too daring opinions he had once ventured to cherish! But, with an -utter contempt for all hypocrisy and art, with a frankness and simplicity -of character, sometimes observed in men of extraordinary abilities, but -never attendant on the ordinary or the corrupted mind, he appeared to -the world as he really felt, and neither thought nor studied whether -such opinions and character were agreeable to his own vanity, or the -taste of his companions; for whom, however, he was, at all times, ready -to sacrifice his time, his money, and all on earth but his honour and -integrity. - -Such was the character of Lord Avondale, imperfectly sketched—but true to -nature.—He, in his twenty-first year, now appeared at Castle Delaval—the -admiration of the large and various company then assembled there. -Flattered, perhaps, by the interest shewn him, but reserved and distant -to every too apparent mark of it, he viewed the motley groupe before -him, as from a superior height, and smiled with something of disdain, -at times, as he marked the affectation, the meanness, the conceit and, -most of all, the heartlessness and cowardice of many of those around -him. Of a morning, he would not unfrequently join Calantha and Sophia -in their walks; of an evening, he would read to the former, or make her -his partner at billiards, or at cards. At such times, Sophia would work -at a little distance; and as her needle monotonously passed the silken -thread through the frame to which her embroidery was fixed, her eyes would -involuntarily turn to where her thoughts, in spite of her endeavours, -too often strayed. Calantha listened to the oft-repeated stories of the -admiral; she heard of his battles, his escapes and his dangers, when -others were weary of the well-known topics; but he was Lord Avondale’s -uncle, and that thought made every thing he uttered interesting to her. - -“You love,” said Alice Mac Allain, one day to her mistress, as they -wandered in silence along the banks of the river Elle, “and he who made -you alone can tell to what these madning fires may drive a heart like -yours. Remember your bracelet—remember your promises to Buchanan; and -learn, before it is too late, in some measure to controul yourself, and -disguise your feelings.” Calantha started from Alice; for love, when it -first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that it fears the least breath of -observation, and disguises itself under every borrowed name. “You are -wrong,” said Calantha, “I would not bend my free spirit to the weakness -of which you would accuse me, for all the world can offer; your Calantha -will never acknowledge a master; will never yield her soul’s free and -immortal hopes, to any earthly affection. Fear not, my counsellor, that -I will forsake my virgin vows, or bow my unbroken spirit to that stern -despot, whose only object is power and command.” - -As Calantha spoke, Lord Avondale approached, and joined them. The deep -blush that crimsoned over her cheek was a truer answer to her friend’s -accusation than the one she had just uttered.—“Heremon and Inis Tara have -charms for both of you,” he said, smiling:—“you are always wandering -either to or from thence.” “They are our own native mountains,” said -Calantha, timidly;—“the landmarks we have been taught to reverence from -our earliest youth.” “And could you not admire the black mountains -of Morne as well,” he said, fixing his eyes on Calantha,—“my native -mountains?”—“they are higher far than these, and soar above the clouds -that would obscure them.” “They are too lofty and too rugged for such -as we are,” said Calantha. “We may gaze at their height and wonder; but -more would be dangerous.” “The roses and myrtles blossom under their -shade,” said Lord Avondale, with a smile; “and Allanwater, to my mind, -is as pleasant to dwell in as Castle Delaval.” “Shall you soon return -there, my lord,” enquired Calantha. “Perhaps never,” he said, mournfully; -and a tear filled his eye as he turned away, and sought to change the -subject of conversation. - -Lady Margaret had spoken to Lord Avondale:—perhaps another had engaged -his affections:—at all events, it seemed certain to Calantha that she -was not the object of his hope or his grief. To have seen him—to have -admired him, was enough for her: she wished not for more than that -privilege; she felt that every affection of her heart was engaged, even -though those affections were unreturned. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -To suffer the pangs of unrequited love was not, in the present instance, -the destiny of Calantha. That dark eye, the lustre of whose gaze she -durst not meet, was, nevertheless, at all times fixed upon her; and the -quick mantling blush and beaming smile, which lighted the countenance -of Lord Avondale, whenever her name was pronounced before him, soon -betrayed, to all but himself and Calantha, how much and how entirely his -affections were engaged. He was of a nature not easily to be flattered -into admiration of others—not readily attracted, or lightly won; but, -once having fixed his affections, he was firm, confiding and incapable -of change, through any change of fortune. He was, besides, of that -affectionate and independent character, that as neither bribe nor power -could have moved him to one act contrary to his principles of integrity, -so neither danger, fatigue, nor any personal consideration could have -deterred him from that which he considered as the business and duty of -his life. He possessed a happy and cheerful disposition,—a frank and -winning manner,—and that hilarity of heart and countenance which rendered -him the charm and sunshine of every society. - -When Lord Avondale, however, addressed Calantha, she answered him in -a cold or sullen manner, and, if he endeavoured to approach her, she -fled unconscious of the feeling which occasioned her embarrassment. Her -cousins, Sophia and Frances, secure of applause, and conscious of their -own power of pleasing, had entered the world neither absurdly timid, -nor vainly presuming:—they knew the place they were called upon to fill -in society; and they sought not to outstep the bounds which good sense -had prescribed. Calantha, on the other hand, scarce could overcome her -terror and confusion when addressed by those with whom she was little -acquainted. But how far less dangerous was this reserve than the easy -confidence which a few short years afterwards produced, and how little -did the haughty Lady Margaret imagine, as she chid her niece for this -excess of timidity, that the day would, perhaps, soon arrive when careless -of the presence of hundreds, Calantha might strive to attract their -attention, by the very arts which she now despised, or pass thoughtlessly -along, hardened and entirely insensible to their censure or their praise! - -To a lover’s eyes such timidity was not unpleasing; and Lord Avondale -liked not the girl he admired the less, for that crimson blush—that timid -look, which scarcely dared encounter his ardent gaze. To him it seemed -to disclose a heart new to the world—unspoiled and guileless. Calantha’s -mind, he thought, might now receive the impression which should be -given it; and while yet free, yet untainted, would it not be happiness -to secure her as his own—to mould her according to his fancy—to be her -guide and protector through life! - -Such were his feelings, as he watched her shunning even the eyes of -him, whom alone she wished to please:—such were his thoughts, when, -flying from the amusements and gaiety natural to her age, she listened -with attention, while he read to her, or conquered her fears to enter -into conversation with him. He seemed to imagine her to be possessed of -every quality which he most admired; and the delusive charm of believing -that he was not indifferent to her heart, threw a beauty and grace over -all her actions, which blinded him to every error. Thus then they both -acknowledged, and surrendered themselves to the power of love. Calantha -for the first time yielded up her heart entirely to its enchantment; -and Lord Avondale for the last. - -It is said there is no happiness, and no love to be compared to that -which is felt for the first time. Most persons erroneously think so; -but love like other arts requires experience, and terror and ignorance, -on its first approach, prevent our feeling it as strongly as at a later -period. Passion mingles not with a sensation so pure, so refined as that -which Calantha then conceived, and the excess of a lover’s attachment -terrified and overpowered the feelings of a child. - -Storms of fury kindled in the eye of Lady Margaret when first she observed -this mutual regard. Words could not express her indignation:—to deeds -she had recourse. Absence was the only remedy to apply; and an hour, -a moment’s delay, by opening Calantha’s mind to a consciousness of her -lover’s sentiments and wishes, might render even this ineffectual. She -saw that the flame had been kindled in a heart too susceptible, and where -opposition would encrease its force;—she upbraided her brother for his -blindness, and reproached herself for her folly. There was but one way -left, which was to communicate the Duke’s surmises and intentions to -the Admiral in terms so positive, that he could not mistake them, and -instantly to send for Buchanan. In pursuance of this purpose, she wrote -to inform him of every thing which had taken place, and to request him -without loss of time to meet her at Castle Delaval. Mrs. Seymour alone -folded Calantha to her bosom without one reproach, and, consigning her -with trembling anxiety to a father’s care, reminded him continually, -that she was his only remaining child, and that force, in a circumstance -of such moment, would be cruelty. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Lady Margaret insisted upon removing Calantha immediately, to London; -but Lord Avondale having heard from the Admiral the cause of her intended -departure, immediately declared his intention of quitting Ireland. Every -thing was now in readiness for his departure; the day fixed; the hour -at hand. It was not perhaps till Lord Avondale felt that he was going -to leave Calantha for ever, that he was fully sensible how much, and -how entirely his affections were engaged. - -On the morning previous to his departure, Calantha threw the bracelet, -which Lady Margaret and her cousin had given her, from her arm; and, -weeping upon the bosom of Alice, bitterly lamented her fate, and informed -her friend that she never, never would belong to Buchanan.—Lord Avondale -had in vain sought an opportunity of seeing her one moment alone. He now -perceived the bracelet on the floor of the room she had just quitted; and -looking upon it, read, without being able to comprehend the application -of the inscription, “_Stessa sangue, Stessa sorte._”—He saw her at that -moment:—she was alone:—he followed her:—she fled from him, embarrassed -and agitated; but he soon approached her:—they fly so slowly who fly -from what they love. - -Lord Avondale thought he had much to say—many things to ask:—he wished -to explain the feelings of his heart—to tell Calantha, once at least -before he quitted her, how deeply—how dearly he had loved,—how, though -unworthy in his own estimation of aspiring to her hand, the remembrance -of her should stimulate him to every noble exertion, and raise him to -a reputation which, without her influence, he never could attain:—he -thought that he could have clasped her to his bosom, and pressed upon her -lips the first kiss of love—the dearest, the truest pledge of fondness -and devotion. But, scarcely able to speak, confused and faultering, he -dared not approach her:—he saw one before him robed in purity, and more -than vestal innocence—one timidly fearful of even a look, or thought, -that breathed aught against that virtue which alone it worshipped. - -“I am come,” he said, at length, “forgive my rashness, to restore -this bracelet, and myself to place it around your arms. Permit me to -say—farewell, before I leave you, perhaps for ever.” As he spoke, he -endeavoured to clasp the diamond lock;—his hand trembled;—Calantha started -from him. “Oh!” said she, “you know not what you do:—I am enough his -already:—be not you the person to devote me to him more completely:—do -not render me utterly miserable.” Though not entirely understanding her, -he scarcely could command himself. Her look, her manner—all told him too -certainly that which overcame his heart with delight.—“She loves me,” he -thought, “and I will die sooner than yield her to any human being:—she -loves me;” and, regardless of fears—of prudence—of every other feeling, -he pressed her one moment to his bosom. “Oh love me, Calantha,” was all -he had time to say; for she broke from him, and fled, too much agitated -to reply. That he had presumed too far, he feared; but that she was not -indifferent to him, he had heard and seen. The thought filled him with -hope, and rendered him callous to all that might befall him. - -The Duke entered the room as Calantha quitted it.—“Avondale,” he said, -offering him his hand, “speak to me, for I wish much to converse with -you before we part:—all I ask is, that you will not deceive me. Something -more than common has taken place:—I observed you with my child.” “I must -indeed speak with you,” said Lord Avondale firmly, but with considerable -agitation. “Every thing I hold dear—my life—my happiness—depend on what I -have to say.” He then informed the Duke with sincerity of his attachment -for Calantha,—proud and eager to acknowledge it, even though he feared -that his hopes might never be realized. - -“I am surprised and grieved,” said the Duke, “that a young man of your -high rank, fortune and rising fame, should thus madly throw away your -affections upon the only being perhaps who never must, never ought, to -return them. My daughter’s hand is promised to another. When I confess -this, do not mistake me:—No force will ever be made use of towards -her; her inclinations will at all times be consulted, even though she -should forget those of her parent; but she is now a mere child, and more -infantine and volatile withal, than it is possible for you to conceive. -There can be no necessity for her being now called upon to make a decided -choice. Buchanan is my nephew, and since the loss of my son, I have -centered all my hopes in him. He is heir to my name, as she is to my -fortune; and surely then an union between them, would be an event the -most desirable for me and for my family. But such considerations alone -would not influence me. I will tell you those then which operate in a -stronger manner:—I have given my solemn promise to my sister, that I will -do all in my power to assist in bringing about an event upon which her -heart is fixed. Judge then, if during her son’s absence, I can dispose -of Calantha’s hand, or permit her to see more of one, who has already, -I fear, made some impression upon her heart.” - -Lord Avondale appeared much agitated.—The Duke paused—then -continued—“Granting that your attachment for my child is as strong as you -would have me believe—granting, my dear young friend, that, captivated by -your very superior abilities, manners and amiable disposition, she has -in part returned the sentiments you acknowledge in her favour,—cannot -you make her the sacrifice I require of you?—Yes.—Though you now think -otherwise, you can do it. So short an acquaintance with each other, -authorizes the term I use:—this is but a mere fancy, which absence and -strength of mind will soon overcome.” - -Lord Avondale was proud even to a fault. He had listened to the Duke -without interrupting him; and the Duke continued to speak, because he -was afraid of hearing the answer, which he concluded would be made. For -protestations, menaces, entreaties he was prepared; but the respectful -silence which continued when he ceased, disconcerted him. “You are not -angry?” said he: “let us part in friendship:—do not go from me thus:—you -must forgive a father:—remember she is my child, and bound to me by -still dearer ties—she is my only one.” His voice faltered, as he said -this:—he thought of the son who had once divided his affections, and of -whom he seldom made mention since his loss. - -Lord Avondale, touched by his manner and by his kindness, accepted his -hand, and struggling with pride—with love,—“I will obey your commands,” -he at length said, “and fly from her presence, if it be for her -happiness:—her happiness is the dearest object of my life. Yet let me see -her before I leave her.”—“No,” said the Duke, “it is too dangerous.” “If -this must not be,” said Lord Avondale, “at least tell her, that for her -sake, I have conquered even my own nature in relinquishing her hand, and, -with it every hope, but too strongly cherished by me. Tell her, that if I -do this, it is not because I do not feel for her the most passionate and -most unalterable attachment. I renounce her only, as I trust, to consign -her to a happier fate. You are her father:—you best know the affection -she deserves:—if she casts away a thought sometimes on me, let her not -suffer for the generosity and goodness of her heart:—let her not.”—He -would have said more, but he was too deeply affected to continue:—he -could not act, or dissemble:—he felt strongly, and he shewed it. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -After this conversation, Calantha saw no more of her lover: yet he was -very anxious to see her once again, and much and violently agitated -before he went. A few words which he had written to her he gave into -Mrs. Seymour’s own hands; and this letter, though it was such as to -justify the high opinion some had formed of his character, was but -little calculated to satisfy the expectations of Calantha’s absurdly -romantic mind; or to realize the hopes she had cherished. It was not -more expressive of his deep regret at their necessary separation, than -of his anxiety that she should not suffer her spirits to be depressed, -or irritate her father by an opposition which would prove fruitless.—“He -does not love you Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, with a malicious smile, -as soon as she had read the letter—(and every one would read it):—“when -men begin to speak of duty, they have ceased to love.” This remark gave -Calantha but little consolation. Lord Avondale had quitted her too, -without even bidding her farewell; and her thoughts continually dwelt -on this disappointment. - -Calantha knew not then that her misery was more than shared,—that Lord -Avondale, though too proud to acknowledge it, was a prey to the deepest -grief upon her account,—that he lived but in the hope of possessing -the only being upon earth to whom he had attached himself,—and that the -sentence pronounced against both, was a death stroke to his happiness, -as well as to her own. When strong love awakes for the first time in an -inexperienced heart it is so diffident, so tremblingly fearful, that -it dares scarcely hope even for a return; and our own demerits appear -before us, in such exaggerated colours, and the superior excellence of -the object we worship arises so often to our view, that it seems but the -natural consequence of our own presumption, that we should be neglected -and forgotten. - -Of Admiral Sir R. Mowbray, Calantha now took leave without being able -to utter one word:—she wept as children weep in early days, the hearts’ -convulsive sob free and unrestrained. He was as much affected as herself, -and seeking Lady Margaret, before he left the castle and followed his -nephew who had gone straight to England, began an eager attack upon her, -with all the blunt asperity of his nature. Indeed he bitterly reproached -himself, and all those who had influenced him, in what he termed his -harsh unfeeling conduct to his nephew in this affair.—“And as to you, -madam,” he cried, addressing Lady Margaret, “you make two young people -wretched, to gratify the vanity of your son, and acquire a fortune, -which I would willingly yield to you, provided the dear children might -marry, and go home with me to Allanwater, a place as pretty, and far -more peaceful than any in these parts: there, I warrant, they would live -happy, and die innocent—which is more than most folks can say in these -great palaces and splendid castles.” - -A smile of contempt was the only answer Lady Margaret deigned to give.—Sir -Richard continued, “you are all a mighty fine set of people, no doubt, -and your assemblies, and your balls are thronged and admired; but none of -these things will make the dear child happy, if her mind is set upon my -nephew; I am the last in the world to disparage any one; but my nephew -is just as proper a man in every point of view as your son; aye, or any -body’s son in the whole world; and so there is my mind given free and -hearty; for there is not a nobler fellow, and there never can be, than -Henry Avondale:—he is as brave a soldier as ever fought for his country; -and in what is he deficient?” Lady Margaret’s lips and cheeks were now -become livid and pale—a fatal symptom, as anger of that description in all -ages has led to evil deeds; whereas the scarlet effusion has, from the -most ancient times been accounted harmless. “Take Lady Calantha then,” -exclaimed Lady Margaret, with assumed calmness, while every furious -passion shook her frame; “and may she prove a serpent to your bosom, -and blast the peace of your whole family.” “She is an angel!” exclaimed -the Admiral, “and she will be our pride, and our comfort.” “She is a -woman,” returned Lady Margaret, with a malicious sneer; “and, by one -means or other, she will work her calling.” Calantha’s tears checked -Sir Richard’s anger; and, his carriage being in readiness, he left the -castle immediately after this conversation. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -It may easily be supposed that Lady Margaret Buchanan and Mrs. Seymour -had a most cordial dislike for each other. Happily, at present, they -agreed in one point: they were both desirous of rousing Calantha from -the state of despondency into which Lord Avondale’s departure had thrown -her. By both, she was admonished to look happy, and to restrain her -excessive grief. Mrs. Seymour spoke to her of duty and self control. Lady -Margaret sought to excite her ambition and desire of distinction. One -only subject was entirely excluded from conversation: Lord Avondale’s -name was forbidden to be mentioned in Calantha’s presence, and every -allusion to the past to be studiously avoided. - -Lady Margaret, however, well aware that whosoever transgressed this -regulation would obtain full power over her niece’s heart, lost no -opportunity of thus gaining her confidence and affection. - -Having won, by this artifice, an easy and favorable audience, after two -or three conversations upon the subject the most interesting to Calantha, -she began, by degrees, to introduce the name, and with the name such a -representation of the feelings of her son, as she well knew to be best -calculated to work upon the weakness of a female heart. Far different -were his real feelings, and far different his real conduct from that -which was described to her niece by Lady Margaret. She had written to -him a full account of all that had taken place; but his answer, which -arrived tardily, and, after much delay, had served only to increase that -lady’s ill humour and add to her disappointment. In the letter which -he sent to his mother he openly derided her advice; professed entire -indifference towards Calantha; and said that, indubitably, he could -not waste his thoughts or time in humouring the absurd fancies of a -capricious girl,—that Lord Avondale, or any other, were alike welcome to -her hand,—that, as for himself, the world was wide and contained women -enough for him; he could range amongst those frail and fickle charmers -without subjecting his honour and his liberty to their pleasure; and, -since the lady had already dispensed with the vows given and received at -an age when the heart was pure, he augured ill of her future conduct, -and envied not the happiness of the man it was her present fancy to -select:—he professed his intention of joining the army on the continent; -talked of leaden hail, glory and death! and seemed resolved not to lessen -the merit of any exploits he might achieve by any want of brilliancy in -the colouring and description of them. - -Enraged at this answer, and sickening at his conceit, Lady Margaret sent -immediately to entreat, or rather to command, his return. In the mean -time, she talked much to Calantha of his sufferings and despair; and soon -perceiving how greatly the circumstance of Lord Avondale’s consenting -to part from her had wounded her feelings, and how perpetually she -recurred to it, she endeavoured, by the most artful interpretations of -his conduct, to lower him in her estimation. Sarcastically contrasting -his coldness with Buchanan’s enthusiasm: “Your lover,” said she, “is, -without doubt, most disinterested!—His eager desire for your happiness -is shown in every part of his conduct!—Such warmth—such delicacy! How -happy would a girl like my Calantha be with such a husband!—What filial -piety distinguishes the whole of his behaviour!—Obey your father, is -the burthen of his creed! He seems even to dread the warmth of your -affection!—He trembles when he thinks into what imprudence it may carry -you!—Why, he is a perfect model, is he not? But let me ask you, my -dear niece, is love, according to your notions and feelings, thus cool -and considerate?—does it pause to weigh right and duty?—is it so very -rational and contemplative?...” “Yes,” replied Calantha, somewhat piqued. -“Virtuous love can make sacrifices; but, when love is united with guilt, -it becomes selfish and thinks only of the present moment.” “And how, my -little philosopher, did you acquire so prematurely this wonderful insight -into the nature of love?” “By feeling it,” said Calantha, triumphantly; -“and by comparing my own feelings with what I have heard called by that -name in others.” - -As she said this, her colour rose, and she fixed her animated blue eyes -full upon Lady Margaret’s face; but vainly did she endeavour to raise -emotion there; that countenance, steady and unruffled, betrayed not even a -momentary flash of anger: her large orbs rolled securely, as she returned -the glance, with a look of proud and scornful superiority. “My little -niece,” said she, tapping her gently on the head, and taking from her -clustering locks the comb that confined them, “my little friend is grown -quite a satirist, and all who have not had, like her, every advantage -of education, are to be severely lashed, I find, for the errors they -may inadvertently have committed.” As she spoke, tears started from her -eyes. Calantha threw herself upon her bosom. “O, my dear aunt,” she said, -“my dearest aunt, forgive me, I entreat you. God knows I have faults -enough myself, and it is not for me to judge of others, whose situation -may have been very different from mine. Is it possible that I should -have caused your tears? My words must, indeed, have been very bitter; -pray forgive me.” “Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, “you are already more -than forgiven; but the tears I shed were not occasioned by your last -speech; though it is true, censure from one’s children, or those one has -ever treated as such, is more galling than from others. But, indeed, my -spirits are much shaken. I have had letters from my son, and he seems -more hurt at your conduct than I expected:—he talks of renouncing his -country and his expectations; he says that, if indeed his Calantha, who -has been the constant object of his thoughts in absence, can have already -renounced her vows and him, he will never intrude his griefs upon her, -nor ever seek to bias her inclinations: yet it is with deep and lasting -regret that he consents to tear you from his remembrance and consign -you to another.” - -Calantha signed deeply at this unexpected information. To condemn any one -to the pangs of unrequited love was hard: she had already felt that it was -no light suffering; and Lady Margaret, seeing how her false and artful -representations had worked upon the best feelings of an inexperienced -heart, lost no opportunity of improving and increasing their effect. - -These repeated attempts to move Calantha to a determination, which was -held out to her as a virtuous and honourable sacrifice made to duty -and to justice, were not long before they were attended with success. -Urged on all sides continually, and worked upon by those she loved, she -at last yielded with becoming inconsistency; and one evening, when she -saw her father somewhat indisposed, she approached him, and whispered -in his ear, that she had thought better of her conduct, and would be -most happy in fulfilling his commands in every respect. “Now you are a -heroine, indeed,” said Lady Margaret, who had overheard the promise: -“you have shewn that true courage which I expected from you—you have -gained a victory over yourself, and I cannot but feel proud of you.” -“Aye,” thought Calantha, “flattery is the chain that will bind me; gild -it but bright enough, and be secure of its strength: you have found, at -last, the clue; now make use of it to my ruin.” - -“She consents,” said Lady Margaret; “it is sufficient; let there be -no delay; let us dazzle her imagination, and awaken her ambition, and -gratify her vanity by the most splendid presents and preparations!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Calantha’s jewels and costly attire—her equipages and attendants, were now -the constant topic of conversation. Every rich gift was ostentatiously -exhibited; while congratulations, were on all sides, poured forth, upon -the youthful bride. Lady Margaret, eagerly displaying the splendid store -to Calantha, asked her if she were not happy.—“Do not,” she replied -addressing her aunt, “do not fancy that I am weak enough to value these -baubles:—My heart at least is free from a folly like this:—I despise this -mockery of riches.” “You despise it!” repeated Lady Margaret, with an -incredulous smile:—“you despise grandeur and vanity! Child, believe one -who knows you well, you worship them; they are your idols; and while your -simple voice sings forth romantic praises of simplicity and retirement, -you have been cradled in luxury, and you cannot exist without it.” - -Buchanan was now daily, nay even hourly expected:—Lady Margaret, awaited -him with anxious hope; Calantha with increasing fear. Having one morning -ridden out to divert her mind from the dreadful suspense under which she -laboured, and meeting with Sir Everard, she enquired of him respecting -her former favourite: “Miss Elinor,” said the doctor, “is still with -her aunt, the abbess of Glanaa; and, her noviciate being over, she will -soon, I fancy, take the veil. You cannot see her; but if your Ladyship -will step from your horse, and enter into my humble abode, I will shew -you a portrait of St. Clara, for so we now call her, she being indeed a -saint; and sure you will admire it.” Calantha accompanied the doctor, and -was struck with the singular beauty of the portrait. “Happy St. Clara, -she said, and sighed:—your heart, dedicated thus early to Heaven, will -escape the struggles and temptations to which mine is already exposed. -Oh! that I too, might follow your example; and, far from a world for -which I am not formed, pass my days in piety and peace.” - -That evening, as the Duke of Altamonte led his daughter through the -crowded apartments, presenting her to every one previous to her marriage, -she was suddenly informed that Buchanan was arrived. Her forced spirits, -and assumed courage at once forsook her; she fled to her room; and -there giving vent to her real feelings, wept bitterly.—“Yet why should -I grieve thus?” she said:—“What though he be here to claim me? my hand -is yet free:—I will not give it against the feelings of my heart.”—Mrs. -Seymour had observed her precipitate flight, and following, insisted -upon being admitted. She endeavoured to calm her; but it was too late. - -From that day, Calantha sickened:—the aid of the physician, and the -care of her friends were vain:—an alarming illness seized upon her mind, -and affected her whole frame. In the paroxysm of her fever, she called -repeatedly upon Lord Avondale’s name, which confirmed those around her -in the opinion they entertained, that her malady had been occasioned by -the violent effort she had made, and the continual dread under which -she had existed for some time past, of Buchanan’s return. Her father -bitterly reproached himself for his conduct; watched by her bed in anxious -suspense; and under the impression of the deepest alarm, wrote to his old -friend the admiral, informing him of his daughter’s danger, and imploring -him to urge Lord Avondale to forget what had passed and to hasten again -to Castle Delaval.—He stated that, to satisfy his sister’s ambition, -the greater part of his fortune should be settled upon Buchanan, to -whom his title descended; and if, after this arrangement, Lord Avondale -still continued the same as when he had parted from Calantha, he only -requested his forgiveness of his former apparent harshness, and earnestly -besought his return without a moment’s loss of time. - -His sister, he strove in vain to appease:—Lady Margaret was in no temper -of mind to admit of his excuses. Her son had arrived and again left the -castle, without even seeing Calantha; and when the Duke attempted to -pacify Lady Margaret, she turned indignantly from him, declaring that -if he had the weakness to yield to the arts and stratagems of a spoiled -and wayward child, she would instantly depart from under his roof, and -never see him more. No one event could have grieved him so much, as this -open rupture with his sister. Yet his child’s continued danger turned -his thoughts from this, and every other consideration:—he yielded to her -wishes:—he could not endure the sight of her misery:—he had from infancy -never refused her slightest request:—and could he now, on so momentous -an occasion, could he now force her inclinations and constrain her choice. - -The kind intentions of the Duke were however defeated. Stung to the soul, -Calantha would not hear of marriage with Lord Avondale:—pride, a far -stronger feeling than love, at that early period, disdained to receive -concessions even from a father:—and a certain moroseness began to mark -her character, as she slowly recovered from her illness, which never -had been observed in it before. She became austere and reserved; read -nothing but books of theology and controversy; seemed even to indulge -an inclination for a monastic life; was often with Miss St. Clare; and -estranged herself from all other society. - -“Let her have her will,” said Lady Margaret, “it is the only means of -curing her of this new fancy.”—The Duke however thought otherwise: he -was greatly alarmed at the turn her disposition seemed to have taken, -and tried every means in his power to remedy and counteract it.—A year -passed thus away; and the names of Buchanan and Lord Avondale were -rarely or never mentioned at the castle; when one evening, suddenly and -unexpectedly, the latter appeared there to answer in person, a message -which the Duke had addressed to him, through the Admiral, during his -daughter’s illness. - -Lord Avondale had been abroad since last he had parted from Calantha; he -had gained the approbation of the army in which he served; and what was -better, he knew that he deserved it. His uncle’s letter had reached him -when still upon service. He had acted upon the staff; he now returned -to join his own regiment which was quartered at Leitrim; and his first -care, before he proceeded upon the duties of his profession, was to seek -the Duke, and to claim, with diminished fortune and expectations, the -bride his early fancy had chosen.—“I will not marry him—I will not see -him:”—These were the only words Calantha pronounced, as they led her -into the room where he was conversing with her father. - -When she saw him, however, her feelings changed. Every heart which has -ever known what it is to meet after a long estrangement, the object of -its first, of its sole, of its entire devotion, can picture to itself -the scene which followed. Neither pride, nor monastic vows, nor natural -bashfulness, repressed the full flow of her happiness at the moment, -when Lord Avondale rushed forward to embrace her, and calling her his -own Calantha, mingled his tears with hers.—The Duke, greatly affected, -looked upon them both. “Take her,” he said, addressing Lord Avondale, and -be assured, whatever her faults, she is my heart’s pride—my treasure. Be -kind to her:—that I know you will be, whilst the enthusiasm of passion -lasts: but ever be kind to her, even when it has subsided:—remember she -has yet to learn what it is to be controuled.” “She shall never learn -it,” said Lord Avondale, again embracing Calantha: “by day, by night, I -have lived but in this hope:—she shall never repent her choice.” “The God -of Heaven vouchsafe his blessing upon you,” said the Duke.—“My sister -may call this weakness; but the smile on my child’s countenance is a -sufficient reward.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -What Lord Avondale had said was true.—One image had pursued him in every -change of situation, since he had parted from Calantha; and though he -had scarcely permitted his mind to dwell on hope; yet he felt that, -without her, there was no happiness for him on earth; and he thought that -once united to her, he was beyond the power of sorrow or misfortune. -So chaste, even in thought, she seemed—so frank and so affectionate, -could he be otherwise than happy with such a companion? How then was -he astonished, when, as soon as they were alone, she informed him that, -although she adored him, she was averse to the fetters he was so eager -to impose. How was he struck to find that all the chimerical, romantic -absurdities, which he most despised, were tenaciously cherished by her; -to be told that dear as he was, her freedom was even dearer; that she -thought it a crime to renounce her vows, her virgin vows; and that she -never would become a slave and a wife;—he must not expect it. - -Unhappy Avondale! even such an avowal did not open his eyes, or deter him -from his pursuit. Love blinds the wisest: and fierce passion domineers -over reason. The dread of another separation inspired him with alarm. -Agitated—furious—he now combatted every objection, ventured every promise, -and loved even with greater fondness from the increasing dread of again -losing what he had hoped was already his own.—“Men of the world are -without religion,” said Calantha with tears; “Women of the world are -without principle. Truth is regarded by none. I love and honour my God, -even more than I love you; and truth is dearer to me than life. I am not -like those I see:—my education, my habits, my feelings are different; -I am like one uncivilized and savage; and if you place me in society, -you will have to blush every hour for the faults I shall involuntarily -commit. Besides this objection, my temper—I am more violent—Oh that it -were not so; but can I, ought I, to deceive you?”... “You are all that is -noble, frank and generous: you shall guide me,” said Lord Avondale; “and -I will protect you. Be mine:—fear me not:—your principles, I venerate; -your religion I will study—will learn—will believe in.—What more?” - -Lord Avondale sought, and won that strange uncertain being, for whom he -was about to sacrifice so much. He considered not the lengthened journey -of life—the varied scenes through which they were to pass; where all -the qualities in which she was wholly deficient would be so often and -so absolutely required—discretion, prudence, firm and steady principle, -obedience, humility.—But to all her confessions and remonstrances, he -replied:—“I love, and you return my passion:—can we be otherwise than -blest! You are the dearest object of my affection, my life, my hope, -my joy. If you can live without me, which I do not believe, I cannot -without you; and that is sufficient. Sorrows must come on all; but united -together we can brave them.—My Calantha you torture me, but to try me. -Were I to renounce you—were I to take you at your word, you, you would -be the first to regret and to reproach me.”—“It is but the name of wife -I hate,” replied the spoiled and wayward child.—“I must command:—my -will.”—“Your will, shall be my law,” said Lord Avondale, as he knelt -before her: “you shall be my mistress—my guide—my monitress—and I, a -willing slave.”—So spoke the man, who, like the girl he addressed, had -died sooner than have yielded up his freedom, or his independence to -another; who, high and proud, had no conception of even the slightest -interference with his conduct or opposition to his wishes; and who at -the very moment that in words he yielded up his liberty, sought only -the fulfilment of his own desire, and the attainment of an object upon -which he had fixed his mind. - -The day arrived. A trembling bride, and an impassioned lover faintly -articulated the awful vow. Lord Avondale thought himself the happiest of -men; and Calantha, though miserable at the moment, felt that, on earth, -she loved but him. In the presence of her assembled family, they uttered -the solemn engagement, which bound them through existence to each other; -and though Calantha was deeply affected, she did not regret the sacred -promise she had made. - -When Lord Avondale, however, approached to take her from her father’s -arms—when she heard that the carriages awaited, which were to bear them -to another residence, nor love, nor force prevailed. “This is my home,” -she cried: “these are my parents. Share all I have—dwell with me where -I have ever dwelt; but think not that I can quit them thus. No spirit -of coquetry—no petty airs, learned or imagined, suggested this violent -and reiterated exclamation—I will not go.” I will not—was sufficient -as she imagined, to change the most determined character; and when she -found that force was opposed to her violence, terror, nay abhorrence -took possession of her mind; and it was with shrieks of despair she was -torn from her father’s bosom. - -“Unhappy Avondale!” said Sophia, as she saw her thus borne away, “may -that violent spirit grow tame, and tractable, and may Calantha at length -prove worthy of such a husband!” This exclamation was uttered with a -feeling which mere interest for her cousin could not have created. In -very truth, Sophia loved Lord Avondale. And Alice MacAllain, who heard the -prayer with surprise and indignation, added fervently:—“that he may make -her happy—that he may know the value of the treasure he possesses—this -is all I ask of heaven.—Oh! my mistress—my protectress—my Calantha—what -is there left me on earth to love, now thou art gone? Whatever they may -say of thy errors even those errors are dearer to my heart, than all -the virtues thou has left behind.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -It was at Allanwater, a small villa amidst the mountains, in the county -of Leitrim, that Lord and Lady Avondale passed the first months of -their marriage. This estate had been settled upon Sir Richard Mowbray, -during his lifetime, by his brother, the late Earl of Avondale. It was -cheerful, though retired; and to Calantha’s enchanted eyes, appeared -all that was most romantic and beautiful upon earth. What indeed had not -appeared beautiful to her in the company of the man she loved! Every one -fancies that there exists in the object of their peculiar admiration a -superiority over others. Calantha perhaps was fully justified in this -opinion. Lord Avondale displayed even in his countenance the sensibility -of a warm, ardent and generous character. He had a distinguished and -prepossessing manner, entirely free from all affectation. It is seldom -that this can be said of any man, and more seldom of one possessed of -such singular beauty of person. He appeared indeed wholly to forget -himself; and was ever more eager in the interests of others than his -own. Many there are, who, though endowed with the best understandings, -have yet an inertness, an insensibility to all that is brilliant and -accomplished; and who, though correct in their observations, yet fatigue -in the long intercourse of life by the sameness of their thoughts. Lord -Avondale’s understanding, however, fraught as it was with knowledge, -was illumined by the splendid light of genius, yet not overthrown by its -force. Of his mind, it might be truly said, that it did not cherish one -base, one doubtful or worldly feeling. He was so sincere that, even in -conversation, he never mis-stated, or exaggerated a fact. He saw at a -glance the faults of others; but his extreme good nature and benevolence -prevented his taking umbrage at them. He was, it is true, of a hot and -passionate temper, and if once justly offended, firm in his resolve, -and not very readily appeased; but he was too generous to injure or to -hate even those who might deserve it. When he loved, and he never really -loved but one, it was with so violent, so blind a passion, that he might -be said to doat upon the very errors of the girl to whom he was thus -attached. To the society of women he had been early accustomed; but had -suffered too much from their arts, and felt too often the effects of their -caprices, to be easily made again their dupe and instrument. Of beauty -he had ofttimes been the willing slave. Strong passion, opportunity, -and entire liberty of conduct, had, at an early period, thrown him into -its power. His profession, and the general laxity of morals, prevented -his viewing his former conduct in the light in which it appeared to his -astonished bride; but when she sighed, because she feared that she was -not the first who had subdued his affections, he smilingly assured her, -that she should be the last—that no other should ever be dear to him -again. - -Calantha, in manner, in appearance, in every feeling, was but a child. -At one hour, she would look entranced upon Avondale, and breath vows of -love and tenderness; at another, hide from his gaze, and weep for the -home she had left. At one time she would talk with him and laugh from -the excess of gaiety she felt; at another, she would stamp her foot -upon the ground in a fit of childish impatience, and exclaiming, “You -must not contradict me in any thing,” she would menace to return to her -father, and never see him more. - -If Lord Avondale had a defect, it was too great good nature, so that -he suffered his vain and frivolous partner, to command, and guide, and -arrange all things around him, as she pleased, nor foresaw the consequence -of her imprudence, though too often carried to excess. With all his -knowledge, he knew not how to restrain; and he had not the experience -necessary to guide one of her character:—he could only idolize; he left -it to others to censure and admonish. - -It was also for Calantha’s misfortune, that Lord Avondale’s religious -opinions were different from those in which she had been early educated. -It was perhaps to shew him the utility of stricter doctrines, both of -faith and morality, that heaven permitted one so good and noble, as he -was, to be united with one so frail and weak. Those doctrines which he -loved to discuss, and support in speculation, she eagerly seized upon, and -carried into practice; thus proving to him too clearly, their dangerous -and pernicious tendency. Eager to oppose and conquer those opinions in -his wife, which savoured as he thought of bigotry and prudish reserve, he -tore the veil at once from her eyes, and opened hastily her wondering mind -to a world before unknown. He foresaw not the peril to which he exposed -her:—he heeded not the rapid progress of her thoughts—the boundless -views of an over-heated imagination. At first she shrunk with pain and -horror, from every feeling which to her mind appeared less chaste, less -pure, than those to which she had long been accustomed; but when her -principles, or rather her prejudices, yielded to the power of love, she -broke from a restraint too rigid, into a liberty the most dangerous from -its novelty, its wildness and its uncertainty. - -The monastic severity which she had imposed upon herself, from exaggerated -sentiments of piety and devotion, gave way with the rest of her former -maxims.—She knew not where to pause, or rest; her eyes were dazzled, -her understanding bewildered; and she viewed the world, and the new form -which it wore before her, with strange and unknown feelings, which she -could neither define, nor command. - -Before this period, her eyes had never even glanced upon the numerous -pages which have unfortunately been traced by the hand of profaneness and -impurity; even the more innocent fictions of romance had been withheld -from her; and her mother’s precepts had, in this respect, been attended -to by her with sacred care. Books of every description were now, without -advice, without selection, thrown open before her; horror and astonishment -at first retarded the course of curiosity and interest:—Lord Avondale -smiled; and soon the alarm of innocence was converted into admiration -at the wit, and beauty with which some of these works abounded. Care -is taken when the blind are cured, that the strong light of day should -not fall too suddenly upon the eye; but no caution was observed in at -once removing from Calantha’s mind, the shackles, the superstitions, -the reserve, the restrictions which overstrained notions of purity and -piety had imposed. - -Calantha’s lover had become her master; and he could not tear himself -one moment from his pupil. He laughed at every artless or shrewd remark, -and pleased himself with contemplating the first workings of a mind, -not unapt in learning, though till then exclusively wrapt up in the -mysteries of religion, the feats of heroes, the poetry of classic bards, -and the history of nations the most ancient and the most removed.—“Where -have you existed, my Calantha?” he continually said:—“who have been -your companions?” “I had none,” she replied; “but wherever I heard of -cruelty, vice, or irreligion, I turned away.” “Ah, do so still, my best -beloved,” said Lord Avondale, with a sigh. “Be ever as chaste, as frank, -as innocent, as now.” “I cannot,” said Calantha, confused and grieved. “I -thought it the greatest of all crimes to love:—no ceremony of marriage—no -doctrines, men have invented, can quiet my conscience:—I know no longer -what to believe, or what to doubt:—hide me in your bosom:—let us live -far from a world which you say is full of evil:—and never part from -my side; for you are—Henry you are, all that is left me now. I look no -more for the protection of Heaven, or the guidance of parents;—you are -my only hope:—do you preserve and bless me; for I have left every thing -for you.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -There is nothing so difficult to describe as happiness. Whether some -feeling of envy enters into the mind upon hearing of it, or whether it is -so calm, so unassuming, so little ostentatious in itself, that words give -an imperfect idea of it, I know not. It is easier to enjoy it, than to -define it. It springs in the heart, and shews itself on the countenance; -but it shuns all display; and is oftener found at home, when home has -not been embittered by dissensions, suspicions and guilt, than any where -else upon earth. Yes, it is in home and in those who watch there for us. -Miserable is the being, who turns elsewhere for consolation! Desolate -is the heart which has broken the ties that bound it there. - -Calantha was happy; her home was blessed; and in Lord Avondale’s society -every hour brought her joy. Perhaps the feelings which, at this time -united them, were too violent—too tumultuous. Few can bear to be thus -loved—thus indulged: very few minds are strong enough to resist it. -Calantha was utterly enervated by it; and when the cares of life first -aroused Lord Avondale, and called him from her, she found herself unfit -for the new situation she was immediately required to fill. When for a few -hours he left her, she waited with trembling anxiety for his return; and -though she murmured not at the necessary change, her days were spent in -tears, and her nights in restless agitation. He more than shared in her -distress: he even encouraged the excess of sensibility which gave rise -to it; for men, whilst they love, think every new caprice and weakness -in the object of it but a new charm; and whilst Calantha could make him -grave or merry—or angry or pleased, just as it suited her, he pardoned -every omission—he forgave every fault. - -Used to be indulged and obeyed, she was not surprised to find him a -willing slave; but she had no conception that the chains he now permitted -to be laid upon him, were ever to be broken; and tears and smiles, she -thought, must, at all times, have the power over his heart which they -now possessed. She was not mistaken:—Lord Avondale was of too fine a -character to trifle with the affections he had won; and Calantha had too -much sense and spirit to wrong him. He looked to his home therefore for -comfort and enjoyment. He folded to his bosom the only being upon earth, -for whom he felt one sentiment of passion or of love. Calantha had not -a thought that he did not know, and share: his heart was as entirely -open, as her own. - -Was it possible to be more happy? It was; and that blessing too, was -granted. Lady Avondale became a mother:—She gave to Avondale, the dearest -gift a wife can offer—a boy, lovely in all the grace of childhood—whose -rosy smiles, and whose infant caresses, seemed even more than ever to -unite them together. He was dear to both; but they were far dearer to -each other. At Allenwater, in the fine evenings of summer, they wandered -out upon the mountains, and saw not in the countenance of the villagers -half the tenderness and happiness they felt themselves. They uttered -therefore no exclamations upon the superior joy of honest industry:—a -cottage offered nothing to their view, which could excite either envy or -regret:—they gave to all, and were loved by all; but in all respects they -felt themselves as innocent, and more happy than those who surrounded -them. - -In truth, the greater refinement, the greater polish the mind and manner -receive, the more exquisite must be the enjoyment the heart is capable -of obtaining. Few know how to love:—it is a word which many misuse; but -they who have felt it, know that there is nothing to compare with it -upon earth. It cannot however exist if in union with guilt. If ever it -do spring up in a perverted heart, it constitutes the misery that heart -deserves:—it consumes and tortures, till it expires. Even, however, -when lawful and virtuous, it may be too violent:—it may render those -who are subject to it, negligent of other duties, and careless of other -affections: this in some measure was the case of Lord and Lady Avondale. - -From Allenwater, Lord and Lady Avondale proceeded to Monteith, an estate -of Lord Avondale’s, where his Aunt Lady Mowbray and his only sister Lady -Elizabeth Mowbray resided. Sir Richard and Lady Mowbray had never had -any children, but Elizabeth and Lord Avondale were as dear to them, and -perhaps dearer than if they had been their own. The society at Monteith -was large. There pleasure and gaiety and talent were chiefly prised and -sought after, while a strong party spirit prevailed. Lady Monteith, a -woman of an acute and penetrating mind, had warmly espoused the cause -of the ministry of the day. Possessed of every quality that could most -delight in society,—brilliant, beautiful and of a truly masculine -understanding, she was accurate in judgment, and at a glance could -penetrate the secrets of others; yet was she easily herself deceived. -She had a nobleness of mind which the intercourse with the world and -exposure to every temptation, had not been able to destroy. Bigotted -and prejudiced in opinions which early habit had consecrated, she was -sometimes too severe in her censures of others. - -At Castle Delaval, the society was even too refined; and a slight tinge -of affectation might, by those who were inclined to censure, be imputed -to it. Though ease was not wanting, there was a polish in manner, perhaps -in thought, which removed the general tone somewhat too far from the -simplicity of nature; sentiment, and all the romance of virtue, was -encouraged. - -At Monteith, on the contrary, this over refinement was the constant -topic of ridicule. Every thought was there uttered, and every feeling -expressed:—there was neither shyness, nor reserve, nor affectation. Talent -opposed itself to talent with all the force of argument.—The loud laugh -that pointed out any new folly, or hailed any new occasion of mirth, was -different from the subdued smile, and gentle hint to which Calantha had -been accustomed. Opinions were there liberally discussed; characters -stripped of their pretences; and satire mingled with the good humour, -and jovial mirth, which on every side abounded. - -She heard and saw every thing with surprise; and though she loved and -admired the individuals, she felt herself unfit to live among them. There -was a liberality of opinion and a satiric turn which she could not at -once comprehend; and she said to herself, daily, as she considered those -around her—“They are different from me.—I can never assimilate myself -to them: I was every thing in my own family; and I am nothing here.” -What talents she had, were of a sort they could not appreciate; and all -the defects were those which they most despised. The refinement, the -romance, the sentiment she had imbibed, appeared in their eyes assumed -and unnatural; her strict opinions perfectly ridiculous; her enthusiasm -absolute insanity; and the violence of her temper, if contradicted -or opposed, the pettishness of a spoiled and wayward child. Yet too -indulgent, too kind to reject her, they loved her, they caressed her, -they bore with her petulance and mistakes. It was, however, as a child -they considered her:—they treated her as one not arrived at maturity of -judgment. - -Her reason by degrees became convinced by the arguments which she -continually heard; and all that was spoken at random, she treasured up -as truth: even whilst vehemently contending and disputing in defence of -her favourite tenets, she became of another opinion. So dangerous is -a little knowledge—so unstable is violence. Her soul’s immortal hopes -seemed to be shaken by the unguarded jests of the profane, who casually -visited at Monteith, or whom she met with elsewhere:—she read till she -confounded truth and falsehood, nor knew any longer what to believe:—she -heard folly censured till she took it to be criminal; but crime she saw -tolerated if well concealed. The names she had set in her very heart -as pure and spotless, she heard traduced and vilified:—indignantly she -defended them with all the warmth of ardent youth:—they were proved -guilty; she wept in agony, she loved them not less, but she thought less -favourably of those who had undeceived her. - -The change in Calantha’s mind was constant—was daily: it never ceased—it -never paused; and none marked its progress, or checked her career. In -emancipating herself from much that was no doubt useless, she stripped -herself by degrees of all, till she neither feared, nor cared, nor knew -any longer what was, from what was not. - -Nothing gives greater umbrage than a misconception and mistaken -application of tenets and opinions which were never meant to be thus -understood and acted upon. Lady Mowbray, a strict adherent to all customs -and etiquettes, saw with astonishment in Calantha a total disregard of -them; and her high temper could ill brook such a defect. Accustomed to the -gentleness of Elizabeth, she saw with indignation the liberty her niece -had assumed. It was not for her to check her; but rigidity, vehemence -in dispute, and harsh truths, at times too bitterly expressed on both -sides, gave an appearance of disunion between them, which happily was -very far from being real, as Calantha loved and admired Lady Mowbray -with the warmest affection. - -Lord Avondale, in the mean time, solely devoted to his wife, blinded -himself to her danger. He saw not the change a few months had made, or -he imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for himself. He thought others -harsh to what he regarded as the mere thoughtlessness of youth; and, -surrendering himself wholly to her guidance, he chided, caressed and -laughed with her in turn. “I see how it is Henry,” said Sir Richard, -before he left Ireland,—“you are a lost man; I shall leave you another -year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by that time all this nonsense will -be over. I love you the better for it, however, my dear boy;—a soldier -never looks so well, to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty woman, -provided he does his duty abroad, as well as at home, and that praise -every one must give you.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -The threatening storm of rebellion now darkened around.—Acts of daily -rapine and outrage alarmed the inhabitants of Ireland, both in the -capital and in the country: all the military forces were increased; -Lord Avondale’s regiment, then at Leitrim, was ordered out on actual -service; and the business of his profession employed every moment of his -time. The vigorous measures pursued, soon produced a favorable change; -tranquillity was apparently restored; and the face of things resumed -its former appearance; but the individual minds that had been aroused -to action were not so easily quieted, and the charms of an active life -were not so readily laid aside. Lord Avondale was still much abroad—much -occupied; and the time hanging heavy upon Calantha’s hands, she was not -sorry to hear that they were going to spend the ensuing winter in London. - -In the autumn, previous to their departure for England, they passed a -few weeks at Castle Delaval, chiefly for the purpose of meeting Lady -Margaret Buchanan who had till then studiously avoided every occasion -of meeting Lady Avondale. Buchanan had neither seen her nor sent her -one soothing message since that event, so angry he affected to be, at -what, in reality, gave him the sincerest delight. - -Count Gondimar had returned from Italy, and was now at the castle. He -had brought letters from Viviani to Lady Margaret, who said at once when -she had read them: “You wish to deceive me. These letters are dated -from Naples, but our young friend is here—here even in Ireland.” “And -his vengeance,” said Gondimar, laughing. Lady Margaret affected, also, -to smile:—“Oh, his vengeance!” she said, “is yet to come:—save me from -his love now; and I will defend myself from the rest.” - -Lord and Lady Dartford were, likewise, at the castle. He appeared -cold and careless. In his pretty inoffensive wife, he found not those -attractions, those splendid talents which had enthralled him for so long -a period with Lady Margaret. He still pined for the tyranny of caprice, -provided the load of responsibility and exertion were removed: and the -price of his slavery were that exemption from the petty cares of life, -for which he felt an insurmountable disgust. From indolence, it seemed -he had fallen again into the snare which was spread for his ruin; and -having, a second time, submitted to the chain, he had lost all desire -of ever again attempting to shake it. Lady Dartford, too innocent to see -her danger, lamented the coldness of her husband, and loved him with even -fonder attachment, for the doubt she entertained of his affection. She -was spoken of by all with pity and praise: her conduct was considered as -examplary, when, in fact, it was purely the effect of nature; for every -hope of her heart was centered in one object, and the fervent constancy -of her affection arose, perhaps, in some measure from the uncertainty -of its being returned. Lady Margaret continued to see the young Count -Viviani in secret:—he had now been in Ireland for some months:—his -manner to Lady Margaret was, however, totally changed:—he had accosted -her, upon his arrival, with the most distant civility, the most studied -coldness:—he affected ever that marked indifference which proved him -but still too much in her power; and, while his heart burned with the -scorching flames of jealousy, he waited for some opportunity of venting -his desire of vengeance, which, from its magnitude, might effectually -satisfy his rage. - -Lord Dartford saw him once as he was retiring in haste from Lady -Margaret’s apartment; and he enquired of her eagerly who he was.—“A young -musician, a friend of Gondimar’s, an Italian,” said Lady Margaret. “He -has not an Italian countenance,” said Lord Dartford, thoughtfully. “I -wish I had not seen him:—it is a face which makes a deep and even an -unpleasant impression. You call him Viviani, do you?—whilst I live, I -never shall forget Viviani!” - -Cards, billiards and music, were the usual nightly occupations. Sir -Everard St. Clare and the Count Gondimar sometimes entered into the -most tedious and vehement political disputes, unless when Calantha -could influence the latter enough to make him sing, which he did in -an agreeable, though not in an unaffected manner. At these times, -Mrs. Seymour, with Sophia and Frances, unheeding either the noise or -the gaiety, eternally embroidered fancy muslins, or, with persevering -industry, painted upon velvet. Calantha mocked at these innocent -recreations. “Unlike music, drawing and reading, which fill the mind,” -she said;—“unlike even to dancing which, though accounted an absurd mode -of passing away time, is active and appears natural to the human form -and constitution.” - -“Tell me Avondale,” Calantha would say, “can any thing be more tedious -than that incessant irritation of the fingers—that plebian, thrifty and -useless mode of increasing in women a love of dress—a selfish desire -of adorning their own persons?—I ever loathed it.—There is a sort -of self-satisfaction about these ingenious working ladies, which is -perfectly disgusting. It gratifies all the little errors of a narrow -mind, under the appearance of a notable and domestic turn. At times, -when every feeling of the heart should have been called forth, I have -seen Sophia examining the patterns of a new gown, and curiously noting -every fold of a strangers dress. Because a woman who, like a mechanic, -has turned her understanding, and hopes, and energies, into this course, -remains uninjured by the storms around her, is she to be admired?—must -she be exalted?” “It is not their occupation, but their character, you -censure:—I fear, Calantha, it is their very virtue you despise.” “Oh no!” -she replied, indignantly: “when real virtue, struggling with temptations -of which these senseless, passionless creatures have no conception, -clinging for support to Heaven, yet preserves itself uncorrupted amidst -the vicious and the base, it deserves a crown of glory, and the praise and -admiration of every heart. Not so these spiritless immaculate prejudiced -sticklers for propriety. I do not love Sophia:—no, though she ever affords -me a cold extenuation for my faults—though through life she considers me -as a sort of friend whom fate has imposed upon her through the ties of -consanguinity. I did not—could not—cannot love her; but there are some, -far better than herself, noble ardent characters, unsullied by a taint -of evil; and I think, Avondale, without flattery, you are in the list, -that I would die to save; that I would bear every torture and ignominy, -to support and render happy.”—“Try then my Calantha,” said Lord Avondale, -“to render them so; for, believe me, there is no agony so great as to -remember that we have caused one moment’s pang to such as have been kind -and good to us.” “You are right,” said Calantha, looking upon him with -affection. - -Oh! if there be a pang of heart too terrible to endure and to imagine, -it would be the consideration that we have returned unexampled kindness, -by ingratitude, and betrayed the generous noble confidence that trusted -every thing to our honour and our love. Calantha had not, however, -this heavy charge to answer for at the time in which she spoke, and her -thoughts were gay, and all those around seemed to share in the happiness -she felt. - -Lord Avondale one day reproved Calantha for her excessive love of -music.—“You have censured work,” he said, “imputed to it every evil, the -cold and the passionless can fall into:—I now retort your satire upon -music.” Some may smile at this; but had not Lord Avondale’s observation -more weight than at first it may appear. Lady Avondale often rode to -Glanaa to hear Miss St. Clare sing. Gondimar sung not like her; and -his love breathing ditties went not to the heart, like the hymns of the -lovely recluse. But for the deep flushes which now and then overspread -St. Clare’s cheeks, and the fire which at times animated her bright dark -eye, some might have fancied her a being of a purer nature than our -own—one incapable of feeling any of the fierce passions that disturb -mankind; but her voice was such as to shake every fibre of the heart, -and might soon have betrayed to an experienced observer the empassioned -violence of her real character. - -Sir Everard, who had one day accompanied Calantha to the convent, asked -his niece in a half serious, half jesting manner, concerning her gift -of prophecy. “Have not all this praying and fasting, cured you of it, -my little Sybel?” he said.—“No,” replied the girl; “but that which you -are so proud of, makes me sad:—it is this alone which keeps me from the -sports which delight my companions:—it is this which makes me weep when -the sun shines bright in the clear heavens, and the bosom of the sea -is calm.”—“Will you shew us a specimen of your art?” said Sir Everard, -eagerly.—Miss St. Clare coloured, and smiling archly at him, “The -inspiration is not on me now, uncle,” she said; “when it is, I will send -and let you know.”—Calantha embraced her, and returned from her visit -more and more enchanted with her singular acquaintance. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -As soon as Lord and Lady Avondale had quitted Castle Delaval, they -returned to Allanwater, previous to their departure for England. Buchanan, -as if to mark his still-continued resentment against Calantha, arrived at -Castle Delaval, accompanied by some of his London acquaintance almost as -soon as she had quitted it. He soon distinguished himself in that circle -by his bold libertine manners, his daring opinions and his overbearing -temper. He declared himself at utter enmity with all refinement, and -professed his distaste for what is termed good society. It was not long, -however, before Lady Margaret observed a strange and sudden alteration -in her son’s manners and deportment:—he entered into every amusement -proposed; he became more than usually condescending; and Alice Mac -Allain, it was supposed, was the sole cause of his reform. - -Alice was credulous; and when she was first told that she was as fair as -the opening rose, and soft and balmy as the summer breeze, she listened -with delight to the flattering strain, and looked in the mirror to see -if all she heard, were true. She beheld there a face, lovely as youth -and glowing health could paint it, dimpling with ever-varying smiles, -while hair, like threads of gold, curled in untaught ringlets over eyes -of the lightest blue; and when she heard that she was loved, she could -not bring herself to mistrust those vows which her own bosom was but -too well prepared to receive. She had, perhaps, been won by the first -who had attempted to gain her affections; but she fell into hands where -falsehood had twined itself around the very heart’s core:—she learned -to love in no common school, and one by one every principle and every -thought was perverted; but it was not Buchanan who had to answer for -her fall! She sunk into infamy, it is true, and ruin irreparable; but -she passed through all the glowing course of passion and romance; nor -awoke, till too late, from the dream which had deluded her. - -Her old father, Gerald Mac Allain, had, with the Duke’s permission, -promised her hand in marriage to a young man in the neighbourhood, much -esteemed for his good character. Linden had long considered himself as -an approved suitor. When, therefore, he was first informed of the change -which had occurred in her sentiments, and, more than all, when he was -told with every aggravation of her misconduct and duplicity, he listened -to the charge with incredulity, until the report of it was confirmed from -her own lips, by an avowal, that she thought herself no longer worthy -of accepting his generous offer,—that to be plain, she loved another, -and wished never more to see him, or to hear the reproaches which she -acknowledged were her due. “I will offer you no reproaches,” said Linden, -in the only interview he had with her; “but remember, Miss Mac Allain, -when I am far away, that if ever those who, under the name of friend, -have beguiled and misled you, should prove false and fail you,—remember, -that whilst Linden lives, there is one left who would gladly lay down -his life to defend and preserve you, and who, being forced to quit you, -never will reproach you: no, Alice—never.” - -“Gerald,” said Lady Margaret, on the morning when Alice was sent in -disgrace from the castle, “I will have no private communication between -yourself and your daughter. She will be placed at present in a respectable -family; and her future conduct will decide in what manner she will be -disposed of hereafter.” The old man bent to the ground in silent grief; -for the sins of children rise up in judgment against their parents. “Oh -let me not be sent from hence in disgrace,” said the weeping girl; “drive -me not to the commission of crime.—I am yet innocent.—Pardon a first -offence.” “Talk not of innocence,” said Lady Margaret, sternly: “those -guilty looks betray you.—Your nocturnal rambles, your daily visits to -the western cliff, your altered manner,—all have been observed by me -and Buchanan”—“Oh say not, at least, that he accuses me. Whatever my -crime, I am guiltless, at least, towards him.” “Guiltless or not, you -must quit our family immediately; and to-morrow, at an early hour, see -that you are prepared.” - -It was to Sir Everard’s house that Alice was conveyed. There were many -reasons which rendered this abode more convenient to Lady Margaret than -any other. The Doctor was timid and subservient, and Count Gondimar was -already a great favourite of the youngest daughter, so that the whole -family were in some measure, in Lady Margaret’s power. Her ladyship -accordingly insisted upon conveying Alice, herself, to Lady St. Clare’s -house; and having safely lodged her in her new apartment, returned to -the castle, in haste, and appeared at dinner, pleased with her morning’s -adventure; her beauty more radiant from success. - -It is said that nothing gives a brighter glow to the complexion, or -makes the eyes of a beautiful woman sparkle so intensely, as triumph -over another. Is this, however, the case with respect to women alone? -Buchanan’s florid cheek was dimpled with smiles; no sleepless night had -dimmed the lustre of his eye; he talked incessantly, and with unusual -affability addressed himself to all, except to his mother; while a look -of gratified vanity was observable whenever the absence of Alice was -alluded to. He had been pleased with being the cause of ruin to any -woman; but his next dearest gratification was the having it supposed that -he was so. He was much attacked upon this occasion, and much laughing -and whispering was heard. The sufferings of love are esteemed lightly -till they are felt; and there were, on this occasion, few at the Duke’s -table, if any, who had ever really known them. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Time which passes swiftly and thoughtlessly for the rich and the gay, -treads ever with leaden foot, for those who are miserable and deserted. -Bright prospects carry the thoughts onward; but for the mourning heart, -it is the direct reverse:—it lives on the memory of the past; traces -ever the same dull round; and loses itself in vain regrets, and useless -retrospections. No joyous morn now rose to break the slumbers of the -once innocent and happy Alice: peace of mind was gone, like the lover -who had first won her affections only, it seemed, to abandon her to -shame and remorse. - -At Sir Everard’s, Alice was treated with impertinent curiosity, tedious -advice and unwise severity. “I hate people in the clouds,” cried the -Doctor, as he led her to her new apartment. “Who would walk in a stubble -field with their eyes gazing upon the stars?—You would perhaps, and then -let me say, nobody would pity you, Miss, if you tumbled into the mire.” -“But kind people would help me up again, and the unkind alone would mock -at me, and pass on.” “There are so many misfortunes in this life, Miss Mac -Allain, which come unexpectedly upon us, that, for my life, I have not -a tear to spare for those who bring them on themselves.” “Yet, perhaps, -sir, they are of all others, the most unfortunate.” “Miss Alice, mark -me, I cannot enter into arguments, or rather shall not, for we do not -always think proper to do what we can. Conscious rectitude is certainly -a valuable feeling, and I am anxious to preserve it now: therefore, as I -have taken charge of you, Miss, which is not what I am particularly fond -of doing, I must execute what I think my duty. Please then to give over -weeping, as it is a thing in a woman which never excites commiseration -in me. Women and children cry out of spite: I have noticed them by the -hour: therefore, dry your eyes; think less of love, more of your duty; -and recollect that people who step out of their sphere are apt to tumble -downwards till the end of their days, as nothing is so disagreeable as -presumption in a woman. I hate presumption, do I not Lady St. Clare? -So no more heroics, young Miss,” continued he, smiling triumphantly, -and shaking his head:—“no more heroics, if you value my opinion. I hate -romance and fooleries in women: do I not, Lady St. Clare?—and heaven be -praised, since the absence of my poor mad brother, we have not a grain -of it in our house. We are all downright people, not afraid of being -called vulgar, because we are of the old school; and when you have lived -a little time with us, Miss, we shall, I hope, teach you a little sound -common sense—a very valuable commodity let me tell you, though you fine -people hold it in disrepute.” - -In this manner, Miss Mac Allain’s mornings were spent, and her evenings -even more tediously; for the Doctor, alarmed at the republican principles -which he observed fast spreading, was constantly employed in writing -pamphlets in favour of government, which he read aloud to his family, -when not at the castle, before he committed them to the Dublin press. -Two weeks were thus passed, by Alice, with resignation; a third, it -seems was beyond her endurance; for one morning Sir Everard’s daughters -entering in haste, informed their father and mother that she was gone. -“Gone,” cried Lady St. Clare! “the thing is impossible.” “Gone,” cried -Sir Everard! “and where? and how?” The maids were called, and one Charley -Wright, who served for footman, coachman and every thing else upon -occasion, was dispatched to seek her, while the doctor without waiting -to hear his wife’s surmises, or his daughter’s lamentations, seized his -hat and stick and walked in haste to the castle. - -His body erect, his cane still under his arm, the brogue stronger than -ever from inward agitation, he immediately addressed himself to the Duke -and Lady Margaret and soon converted their smiles into fear and anger, -by informing them that Alice Mac Allain had eloped. - -Orders were given, that every enquiry should be made for the fugitive; and -the company at the castle being informed one by one of the event, lost -themselves in conjectures upon it. Lady Margaret had no doubt herself, -that her son was deeply implicated in the affair, and in consequence -every search was set on foot, but, as it proved in the event, without -the least success. Mr. Buchanan had left Castle Delaval the week before, -which confirmed the suspicions already entertained on his account. - -Lady Avondale was in London when she was informed of this event. Her -grief for Alice’s fate was very sincere, and her anxiety for her even -greater; but Lord Avondale participated in her sorrow—he endeavoured to -sooth her agitation; and how could he fail in his attempt: even misery -is lightened, if it is shared; and one look, one word, from a heart -which seems to comprehend our suffering, alleviates the bitterness. - -Though Lady Avondale had not seen Buchanan since her marriage, and had -heard that he was offended with her, she wrote to him immediately upon -hearing of Alice’s fate, and urged him by every tie, she thought most -sacred and dear—by every impression most likely to awaken his compassion, -to restore the unfortunate girl to her suffering father, or at least to -confide her, to her care, that she might if possible protect and save -her from further misfortune.—To her extreme astonishment, she received -an answer to this letter with a positive assurance from him that he -had no concern, whatever in Miss Mac Allain’s departure; that he was -as ignorant as herself, whither she could be gone; and that it might be -recollected he had left Castle Delaval some days previous to that event. - -Lady Dartford who had returned to London and sometimes corresponded with -Sophia, now corroborated Buchanan’s statement, and assured her that she -had no reason to believe Buchanan concerned in this dark affair, as she -had seen him several times and he utterly denied it. Lady Dartford was -however too innocent, and inexperienced to know how men of the world can -deceive; she was even ignorant of her husband’s conduct; and though she -liked not Lady Margaret, she doubted not that she was her friend:—who -indeed doubts till they learn by bitter experience the weakness of -confiding! - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -The whole party, at Castle Delaval, now proceeded to London for the -winter, where Lord and Lady Avondale were already established in the -Duke’s mansion in .... Square. - -A slight cold and fever, added to the anxiety and grief Lady Avondale -had felt for her unhappy friend, had confined her entirely to her own -apartment; and since her arrival in town, Count Gondimar was almost the -only person who had been hitherto admitted to her presence. - -He and Viviani now lodged in the same house; but the latter still -concealed himself and never was admitted to Lady Margaret’s presence -except secretly and with caution. He often enquired after Calantha; and -one evening the following conversation took place respecting her between -himself and the Count: - -“You remember her,” said Gondimar, “a wild and wayward girl. Is she -less, do you suppose, an object of attraction now in the more endearing -character of mother and of wife—so gentle, so young she seems, so pure, -and yet so passionately attached to her husband and infant boy, that I -think even you Viviani would feel convinced of her integrity. She seems -indeed one born alone to love, and to be loved, if love itself might exist -in a creature whom purity, and every modest feeling seem continually to -surround.” - -Viviani smiled in scorn. “Gondimar, this Calantha, this fair and spotless -flower is a woman, and, as such, she must be frail. Besides, I know -that she is so in a thousand instances, though as yet too innocent to -see her danger, or to mistrust our sex. You have often described to me -her excessive fondness for music. What think you of it? She does not -hear it as the Miss Seymours hear it, you tell me. She does not admire -it, as one of the lovers of harmony might. Oh no; she feels it in her -very soul—it awakens every sensibility—it plays upon the chords of her -overheated imagination—it fills her eyes with tears, and strengthens -and excites the passions, which it appears to soothe and to compose. -There is nothing which the power of music cannot effect, when it is thus -heard. Your Calantha feels it to a dangerous excess. Let me see her, -and I will sing to her till the chaste veil of every modest feeling is -thrown aside, and thoughts of fire dart into her bosom, and loosen every -principle therein. Oh I would trust every thing to the power of melody. -Calantha is fond of dancing too, I hear; and dancing is the order of the -night. This is well; and once, though she saw me not amidst the crowd, -I marked her, as she lightly bounded the gayest in the circle, from the -mere excess of the animal spirits of youth. Now Miss Seymour dances; but -it is with modest dignity: her sister Frances dances also, and it is with -much skill and grace, her sidelong glance searching for admiration as -she passes by; but Calantha sees not, thinks not, when she dances:—her -heart beats with joyous pleasure—her countenance irradiates—and almost -wild with delight, she forgets every thing but the moment she enjoys. Let -Viviani but for one night be her partner, and you shall see how pure is -this Calantha. She boasts too of the most unclouded happiness, you tell -me, and of the most perfect state of security and bliss; they who soar -above others, on the wings of romance, will fall. Oh surely they will -fall. Let her but continue in her present illusion a few short years—let -her but take the common chances of the life she will be called upon to -lead; and you, or I, or any man, may possess her affections, nor boast -greatly of the conquest. In one word, she is now in London. Give but -Viviani one opportunity of beholding her: it is all I ask.” - -Gondimar listened to his young friend with regret. “There are women -enough, Viviani,” he said mournfully; “spare this one. I have an interest -in her safety.”—“I shall not seek her,” replied Viviani proudly: “please -your own fancy: I care not for these triflers—not I.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -To that heartless mass of affectation, to that compound of every new and -every old absurdity, to that subservient spiritless world of fashion, -Lady Avondale was now for the first time introduced. It burst at once -upon her delighted view, like a new paradise of unenjoyed sweets—like -a fairy kingdom peopled with ideal inhabitants. Whilst she resided at -Monteith and Castle Delaval, she had felt an eager desire to improve her -mind; study of every sort was her delight, for he who instructed her was -her lover—her husband; one smile, from him could awaken every energy—one -frown, repress every feeling of gaiety, for every word he uttered amused -and pleased; she learned with more aptness than a school-boy; and he who -wondered at the quickness of his pupil, forgot to ascribe her exertions -and success to the power which alone occasioned them—a power which -conquers every difficulty and endures every trial. - -Arrived in that gay city, that fair mart where pleasure and amusement -gather around their votaries,—where incessant hurry after novelty employs -every energy, and desire of gaiety fills every hour, every feeling -and every thought, Calantha hailed every new acquaintance—every new -amusement; and her mind unpolished and ignorant, opened with admiration -and wonder upon so new, so diversified a scene. To the language of praise -and affection, she had been used; to unlimited indulgence and liberty, -she was accustomed; but the soft breathing voice of flattery, sounded -to her ear far sweeter, than any other more familiar strain; though -often, in the midst of its blandishments, she turned away to seek for -Lord Avondale’s approbation. - -Calantha was happy before; but now it was like a dream of enchantment; -and her only regret was that her husband seemed not to partake as much, -as she could have wished in her delight. Yet he knew the innocence of -her heart, the austerity with which she shrunk from the bare thought -of evil; and he had trusted her even in the lion’s den, so certain -was he of her virtue, and attachment. Indeed, Lord Avondale, though -neither puffed with vanity, nor overbearing with pride, could not but -be conscious, as he looked around, that both in beauty of person, in -nobility of parentage, and more than these, in the impassioned feelings -of an uncorrupted heart, and the rich gifts of a mind enlightened by -wisdom and study,—none were his superiors, and very few his equals; -and if his Calantha could have preferred the effeminate and frivolous -beings who surrounded her, to his sincere and strong attachment, would -she be worthy, in such case, of a single sigh of regret or the smallest -struggle to retain her!—No:—he was convinced that she would not; and, -as in word and deed, he was faithful to her, he feared not to let her -take the course which others trod, or enjoy the smiles of fortune, while -youth and happiness were in her possession. - -The steed that never has felt the curb, as it flies lightly and wildly -proud of its liberty among its native hills and valleys, may toss its -head and plunge as it snuffs the air and rejoices in its existence, -while the tame and goaded hack trots along the beaten road, starting -from the lash under which it trembles and stumbling and falling, if -not constantly upheld.—Now see the goal before her. Calantha starts for -the race. Nor curb, nor rein have ever fettered the pupil of nature—the -proud, the daring votress of liberty and love. What though she quit the -common path, if honour and praise accompany her steps, and crown her with -success, shall he who owns her despise her? or must he, can he, mistrust -her? He did not; and the high spirits of uncurbed youth were in future -her only guide—the gayest therefore, where all were gay—the kindest, for -excess of happiness renders every heart kind. In a few months after Lady -Avondale’s arrival in London, she was surrounded, as it appeared, by -friends who would have sacrificed their lives and fortunes to give her -pleasure. Friends!—it was a name she was in the habit of giving to the -first who happened to please her fancy. This even was not required: the -frowns of the world were sufficient to endear the objects it censures to -her affection; and they who had not a friend, and deserved not to have -one, were sure, without other recommendation to find one in Calantha. -All looked fresh, beautiful and new to her eyes; every person she met -appeared kind, honourable and sincere; and every party brilliant; for -her heart, blest in itself reflected its own sunshine around. - -Mrs. Seymour, after her arrival in town was pleased to see Calantha -so happy. No gloomy fear obtruded itself; she saw all things with the -unclouded eye of virtue; yet when she considered how many faults, how -many imprudences, her thoughtless spirits might lead her to commit, -she trembled for her; and once when Calantha boasted of the extacy she -enjoyed—“long may that innocent heart feel thus,” she said, “my only, -my beloved niece; but whilst the little bark is decked with flowers, and -sails gaily in a tranquil sea, steer it steadily, remembering that rough -gales may come and we should ever be prepared.” She spoke with an air -of melancholy: she had perhaps, herself, suffered from the goodness and -openness of her heart; but whatever the faults and sorrows into which -she had fallen, no purer mind ever existed than hers—no heart ever felt -more strongly. - -The affectation of generosity is common; the reality is so rare, that its -constant and silent course passes along unperceived, whilst prodigality -and ostentation bear away the praise of mankind.—Calantha was esteemed -generous; yet indifference for what others valued, and thoughtless -profusion were the only qualities she possessed. It is true that the -sufferings of others melted a young and ardent heart into the performance -of many actions which would never have occurred to those of a colder -and more prudent nature. But was there any self-denial practised; and -was not she, who bestowed, possessed of every luxury and comfort, her -varying and fanciful caprices could desire! Never did she resist the -smallest impulse or temptation. If to give had been a crime, she had -committed it; for it gave her pain to refuse, and she knew not how to -deprive herself of any gratification. She lavished, therefore, all she -had, regardless of every consequence; but happily for her, she was placed -in a situation which prevented her from suffering as severely for her -faults, as probably she deserved. - -Two friends now appeared to bless her further, as she thought, by their -affection and confidence—Lady Mandeville, and Lady Augusta Selwyn. The -former she loved; the latter she admired. Lord Avondale observed her -intimacy with Lady Mandeville with regret; and once, though with much -gentleness, reproved her for it. “Henry,” she replied, “say not one word -against my beautiful, though perhaps unfortunate friend: spare Lady -Mandeville; and I will give you up Lady Augusta Selwyn; but remember -the former is unprotected and unhappy.” - -Mrs. Seymour was present when Lord Avondale had thus ventured to hint his -disapprobation of Calantha’s new acquaintance.—“Say at once, that Calantha -shall not see any more of one whom you disapprove:—her own character -is not established. Grace and manner are prepossessing qualities; but -it is decorum and a rational adherence to propriety which alone can -secure esteem. Tell me not of misfortunes,” continued Mrs. Seymour, with -increasing zeal in the good cause, and turning from Lord Avondale to -Calantha. “A woman who breaks through the lesser rules which custom and -public opinion have established, deserves to lose all claim to respect; -and they who shrink not at your age, from even the appearance of guilt, -because they dread being called severe and prudish, too generally follow -the steps of the victims their false sentiments of pity have induced -them to support. Lord Avondale” continued she, with more of warmth than -it was her custom to shew—“you will lament, when it is too late, the -ruin of this child. Those who now smile at Calantha’s follies will soon -be the first to frown upon her faults. She is on the road to perdition; -and now is the moment, the only moment perhaps, in which to check her -course. You advise:—I command. My girls at least, shall not associate -with Lady Mandeville, whom no one visits. Lady Avondale of course is -her own mistress.” - -Piqued at Mrs. Seymour’s manner, Calantha appealed to her husband: “and -shall I give up my friend, because she has none but me to defend her? -Shall my friendship—” “Alas Calantha,” said Lord Avondale, “you treat -the noblest sentiment of the heart as a toy which is to be purchased -to-day, and thrown aside to-morrow. Believe me, friendship is not to be -acquired by a few morning visits; nor is it to be found, though I fear -it is too often lost, in the crowd of fashion.” He spoke this mournfully. -The ready tears trembled in Lady Avondale’s eyes.—“I will see no more of -her, if it gives you pain. I will never visit her again.”—Lord Avondale -could not bear to grieve her. - -A servant entered with a note, whilst they were yet together:—a crimson -blush suffused Calantha’s cheeks. “I see” said Lord Avondale smiling, -as if fearful of losing her confidence,—“it is from your new friend.” -It was so:—she had sent her carriage with a request that Lady Avondale -would immediately call upon her.—She hesitated; looked eagerly for a -permission, which was too soon granted; and, without making any excuse, -for she had not yet learned the art, she hastened from the lowering eyes -of the deeply offended Mrs. Seymour. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Long as she had now been known to Lady Mandeville, she had only once -before seen her at her own house. She now found her reclining upon a sofa -in an apartment more prettily than magnificently ornamented:—a shawl was -thrown gracefully over her; and her hair, in dark auburn ringlets, half -concealed her languishing blue eyes. Lady Mandeville was at this time no -longer in the very prime of youth. Her air and manner had not that high -polish, which at first sight seduces and wins. On the contrary, it rather -was the reverse, and a certain pedantry took off much from the charm of -her conversation. Yet something there was about her, which attracted. -She seemed sincere too, and had less of that studied self-satisfied air, -than most women, who affect to be well informed. - -“I am glad you are come, my loved friend,” she said, extending her hand -to Calantha when she entered. “I have just been translating an Ode of -Pindar:—his poetry is sublime: it nerves the soul and raises it above -vulgar cares;—but you do not understand Greek, do you? Indeed to you it -would be a superfluous acquisition, married as you are, and to such a -man.”—Lady Avondale, rather puzzled as to the connection between domestic -happiness, and the Greek language, listened for further explanation;—but -with a deep sigh, her lovely acquaintance talked of her fate, and referred -to scenes and times long passed, and utterly unknown to her. She talked -much too of injured innocence, of the malignity of the world, of her -contempt for her own sex, and of the superiority of men. - -Children as fair, and more innocent than their mother, entered whilst she -was yet venting her complaints. A husband she had not;—but lovers. What -man was there who could see her, and not, at all events wish himself of -the number! Yet she assured Lady Avondale, who believed her, that she -despised them all; that moreover she was miserable, but vicious; that -her very openness and frankness ought to prove that there was nothing to -conceal. The thought of guilt entered not at that time into Calantha’s -heart; and when a woman affirmed that she was innocent, it excited in -her no other surprise, than that she should, for one moment, suppose her -so barbarous, and so malevolent, as to think otherwise. Indeed there -seemed to her as great a gulph between those she loved, and vice, as -that which separates the two extremes of wickedness and virtue; nor had -she yet learned to comprehend the language of hypocrisy and deceit. - -Though the presence of the children had not made any difference, the -entrance of three gentlemen, whom Lady Mandeville introduced to Lady -Avondale, as her lovers, gave a new turn to the conversation; and here it -should be explained, that the term lover, when Lady Mandeville used it, -was intended to convey no other idea than that of an humble attendant,—a -bearer of shawls, a writer of sonnets, and a caller of carriages. “With -Lord Dallas you are already acquainted,” she said, sighing gently. “I -wish now to introduce to you Mr. Clarendon, a poet: and Mr. Tremore, what -are you? speak for yourself; for I hardly know in what manner to describe -you.” “I am anything, and everything that Lady Mandeville pleases,” said -Mr. Tremore, bowing to the ground, and smiling languidly upon her. Mr. -Tremore was one of the most unsightly lovers that ever aspired to bear -the name. He was of a huge circumference, and what is unusual in persons -of that make, he was a mass of rancour and malevolence—gifted however -with a wit so keen and deadly, that with its razor edge, he cut to the -heart most of his enemies, and all his friends. Lord Dallas, diminutive -and conceited, had a brilliant wit, spoke seldom, and studied deeply -every sentence which he uttered. He affected to be absent; but in fact -no one ever forgot himself so seldom. His voice, untuned and harsh, -repeated with a forced emphasis certain jests and bon mots which had been -previously made, and adapted for certain conversations. Mr. Clarendon -alone seemed gifted with every kind of merit:—he had an open ingenuous -countenance, expressive eyes, and a strong and powerful mind. - -The conversation alternately touched upon the nature of love, the use -and beauty of the greek language, the pleasures of maternal affection, -and the insipidity of all English society. It was rather metaphorical -at times:—there was generally in it a want of nature—an attempt at -display: but to Calantha it appeared too singular, and too attractive to -wish it otherwise. She had been used, however, to a manner rather more -refined—more highly polished than any she found out of her own circle -and family. A thousand things shocked her at first, which afterwards -she not only tolerated, but adopted. There was a want of ease, too, in -many societies, to which she could not yet accustom herself; and she -knew not exactly what it was which chilled and depressed her when in -the presence of many who were, upon a nearer acquaintance, amiable and -agreeable. Perhaps too anxious a desire to please, too great a regard -for trifles, a sort of selfishness, which never loses sight of its own -identity, occasions this coldness among these votaries of fashion. The -dread of not having that air, that dress, that refinement which they -value so much, prevents their obtaining it; and a degree of vulgarity -steals unperceived amidst the higher classes in England, from the very -apprehension they feel of falling into it. Even those, who are natural, -do not entirely appear so. - -Calantha’s life was like a feverish dream:—so crowded, so varied, so -swift in its transitions, that she had little time to reflect; and when -she did, the memory of the past was so agreeable and so brilliant, that -it gave her pleasure to think of it again and again. If Lord Avondale -was with her, every place appeared even more than usually delightful; -but, when absent, her letters, no longer filled with lamentations on -her lonely situation, breathed from a vain heart the lightness, and -satisfaction it enjoyed. - -It may be supposed that one so frivolous and so thoughtless, committed -every possible fault and folly which opportunity and time allowed. It -may also be supposed, that such imprudence met with its just reward; -and that every tongue was busy in its censure, and every gossip in -exaggerating the extraordinary feats of such a trifler. Yet Calantha, -upon the whole, was treated with only too much kindness; and the world, -though sometimes called severe, seemed willing to pause ere it would -condemn, and was intent alone to spare—to reclaim a young offender. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -How different from the animated discussion at Lady Mandeville’s, was the -loud laugh and boisterous tone of Lady Augusta Selwyn, whom Calantha -found, on her return, at that very moment stepping from her carriage, -and enquiring for her. “Ah, my dear sweet friend,” she cried, flying -towards Calantha, and shaking her painfully by the hand, “this fortuitous -concurrence of atoms, fills my soul with rapture. But I was resolved to -see you. I have promised and vowed three things in your name; therefore, -consider me as your sponsor, and indeed I am old enough to be such. -In the first place, you must come to me to-night, for I have a little -supper, and all my guests attend only in the hope of meeting you. You -are the bribe I have held out—you are to stand me in lieu of a good -house, good cook, agreeable husband, and pretty face,—in all of which I -am most unfortunately deficient. Having confessed thus much, it would -be barbarous, it would be inhuman you know to refuse me. Now for the -second favour,” continued this energetic lady:—“come alone; for though I -have a great respect for Mrs. and Miss Seymour, yet I never know what I -am about when their very sensible eyes are fixed upon me.”—“Oh you need -not fear, Sophia would not come if I wished it; and Mrs. Seymour”—“I -have something else to suggest,” interrupted Lady Augusta:—“introduce -me immediately to your husband: he is divine, I hear—perfectly divine!” -“I cannot at this moment; but”—“By the bye, why were you not at the ball -last night. I can tell you there were some who expected you there. Yes, -I assure you, a pair of languid blue eyes watching for you—a fascinating -new friend waiting to take you home to a _petit souper très-bien assorti_. -I went myself. It was monstrously dull at the ball:—insupportable, I -assure you; perfectly so. Mrs. Turner and her nine daughters! It is quite -a public calamity, Mrs. Turner being so very prolific—the produce so -frightful. Amongst other animals, when they commit such blunders, the -brood is drowned; but we christians are suffered to grow up till the -land is overrun.” “Heigho.” “What is the matter? You look so _triste_ -to-day, not even my wit can enliven you.—Isn’t it well, love? or has -its husband been plaguing it? Now I have it:—you have, perchance, been -translating an Ode of Pindar. I was there myself this morning; and it -gave me the vapours for ten minutes; but I am used to these things you -know child, and you are a novice. By the bye, where is your cousin, -_le beau capitaine, le chef des brigands_? I was quite frappè with his -appearance.” “You may think it strange,” said Calantha, “but I have not -seen him these eight years—not since he was quite a child.” “Oh, what -an interview there will be then,” said Lady Augusta: “he is a perfect -ruffian.” - -“Are you aware that we have three sets of men now much in request?—There -are these ruffians, who affect to be desperate, who game, who drink, -who fight, who will captivate you, I am sure of it. They are always just -going to be destroyed, or rather talk as if they were; and every thing -they do, they must do it to desperation. Then come the exquisites. Lord -Dallas is one, a sort of refined _petit maître_, quite thorough bred, -though full of conceit. As to the third set, your useful men, who know -how to read and write, in which class critics, reviewers, politicians -and poets stand, you may always know them by their slovenly appearance. -But you are freezing, _mon enfant_. What can be the matter? I will -release you in a moment from my visitation. I have ten thousand things to -say.—Will you come to my opera box Tuesday? Are you going to the masked -ball Thursday? Has Mrs. Churchill sent for you to her _déjeûné paré_. -I know she wishes, more than I can express, to have you. Perhaps you -will let me drive you there. My ponies are beautiful arabians: have you -seen them? Oh, by the bye, why were you not at your aunt Lady Margaret’s -concert? I believe it was a concert:—there was a melancholy noise in -one of the rooms; but I did not attend to it.—Do you like music?”—“I -do; but I must own I am not one who profess to be all enchantment at -the scraping of a fiddle, because some old philharmonic plays on it; -nor can I admire the gurgling and groaning of a number of foreigners, -because it is called singing.” - -“They tell me you think of nothing but love and poetry. I dare say -you write sonnets to the moon—the chaste moon, and your husband. How -sentimental!” “And you,”—“No, my dear, I thank heaven I never could -make a rhyme in my life.—Farewell—adieu—remember to-night,—bring Lord -Avondale—that divine Henry: though beware too; for many a lady has to -mourn the loss of her husband, as soon as she has introduced him into -the society of _fascinating_ friends.” “He is out of town.” “Then so -much the better. After all, a wife is only pleasant when her husband -is out of the way. She must either be in love, or out of love with him. -If the latter, they wrangle; and if the former, it is ten times worse. -Lovers are at all times insufferable; but when the holy laws of matrimony -give them a lawful right to be so amazingly fond and affectionate, -it makes one sick.” “Which are you, in love or out of love with Mr. -Selwyn?”—“Neither, my child, neither. He never molests me, never intrudes -his dear dull personage on my society. He is the best of his race, and -only married me out of pure benevolence. We were fourteen raw Scotch -girls—all hideous, and no chance of being got rid of, either by marriage, -or death—so healthy and ugly. I believe we are all alive and flourishing -somewhere or other now. Think then of dear good Mr. Selwyn, who took me -for his mate, because I let him play at cards whenever he pleased. He -is so fond of cheating, he never can get any one but me to play with -him. Farewell.—_Au revoir._—I shall expect you at ten.—_Adieu, chère -petite._” Saying which Lady Augusta left Calantha. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -Calantha imagined, and was repeatedly assured, that her husband neglected -her: the thought gave her pain: she contrasted his apparent coldness and -gravity with the kindness and flattery of others. Even Count Gondimar was -more anxious for her safety, and latterly she observed that he watched -her with increasing solicitude. At a masked ball, in particular, the -Italian Count followed her till she was half offended. “Why do you thus -persecute me as to the frivolity and vanity of my manner? Why do you -seem so infinitely more solicitous concerning me than my husband and my -relations?” she said, suddenly turning and looking earnestly at him. “What -is it to you with whom I may chance to converse? How is it possible that -you can see imperfections in me, when others tell me I am faultless and -delightful?” “And do you believe that the gay troop of flatterers who -now follow you,” said a mask, who was standing near the Count, “do you -believe that they feel any other sentiment for you than indifference?” -“Indifference!” repeated Calantha, “what can you mean? I am secure of -their affection; and I have found more friends in London since I first -arrived there, than I have made in the whole previous course of my life.” -“You are their jest and their derision,” said the same mask.—“Am I,” she -said, turning eagerly round to her partner, Lord Trelawny, “am I your -jest, and your derision?” “You are all that is amiable and adorable,” -he whispered. “Speak louder,” said Lady Avondale, “tell this Italian -Count, and his discourteous friend, what you think of me; or will they -wait to hear, what we all think of them.” Gondimar, offended, left her; -and she passed the night at the ball; but felt uneasy at what she had -said. - -Monteagle house, at which the masquerade was given, was large and -magnificent. The folding doors opened into fine apartments, each decorated -with flowers, and filled with masks. Her young friends, Sophia and Lady -Dartford, in the first bloom and freshness of youth, attracted much -admiration. Their dress was alike, and while seeming simplicity was -its greatest charm, every fold, every turn was adapted to exhibit their -figure, and add to their natural grace. If vanity can give happiness to -the heart, how must theirs have exulted; for encomium and flattery was -the only language they heard. - -Lady Avondale, in the mean time, fatigued with the ceremonious insipidity -of their conversation, and delighted at having for once escaped from -Count Gondimar, sought in vain to draw her companions into the illuminated -gardens, and not succeeding, wandered into them alone, followed by some -masks in the disguise of gipsies, by whom she was soon surrounded; and -one of them whom she now recognised to be the same who had spoken to her -with Gondimar, now under the pretence of telling her fortune, said to -her every thing that was most severe. “What,” said he, turning to one -of his companions, “do you think of the line in this lady’s hand? It is -a very strange one: I augur no good from it.” The dress of the mask who -spoke was that of a friar, his voice was soft and mournful. “Caprice” -said the young man, whom he addressed: “I read no worse fault. Come, -I will tell her fortune.—Lady, you were born under a favoured planet,” -“Aaron,”—interrupted the first gipsey, “you are a flatterer, and it is -my privilege to speak without disguise. Give me the hand, and I will -shew her destiny.” After pausing a moment, he fixed his dark eyes upon -Calantha, the rest of his face being covered by a cowl, and in a voice -like music, so soft and plaintive begun.— - - The task to tell thy fate, be mine, - To guard against its ills, be thine; - For heavy treads the foot of care - On those who are so young and fair. - - The star, that on thy birth shone bright, - Now casts a dim uncertain light: - A threatening sky obscures its rays, - And shadows o’er thy future days. - - In fashion’s magic circle bound, - Thy steps shall tread her mazy round, - While pleasure, flattery and art, - Shall captivate thy fickle heart. - - The transient favorite of a day, - Of folly and of fools the prey; - Insatiate vanity shall pine - As honour, and as health decline, - Till reft of fame, without a friend, - Thou’lt meet, unwept, an early end. - -Lady Avondale coloured; and the young man who had accused her of caprice, -watching her countenance, and seeing the pain these acrimonious lines -had given her, reproved the friar “No, no,” he cried “if she must hear -her destiny, let me reveal it.” - - The task to tell thy fate, be mine, - And every bliss I wish thee, thine. - So heavenly fair, so pure, so blest, - Admired by all, by all carest. - The ills of life thou ne’er shalt know, - Or weep alone for others woe. - -“For the honour of our tribe, cease Aaron” said a female gipsey advancing: -“positively I will not hear any more of this flat parody. The friar’s -malice I could endure; but this will mar all.”—Whatever the female -gipsey might say, Aaron had a certain figure, and countenance which were -sufficiently commanding and attractive. He had disengaged himself from -his companions; and now approached Calantha, and asked her to allow him -to take care of her through the crowd. “This is abominable treachery,” -said the female gipsey:—“this conduct is unpardonable: good faith and -good fellowship were ever our characteristics.” “You should not exert -your power” answered the young man, “against those who seem so little -willing to use the same weapons in return. I will answer for it that, -though under a thousand masks, the lady you have attacked, would never -say an ill natured thing” “Take care of her goodnature then,” said the -gipsey archly:—“it may be more fatal.” - -The gipsey then went off, with the rest of her party; but Aaron remained, -and, as if much pleased with the gentleness of Lady Avondale’s behaviour, -followed her. “Who are you?” said she. “I will not take the arm of one -who is ashamed of his name”—“And yet it is only thus unknown, I can -hope to find favour.” “Did I ever see you before?” “I have often had -the happiness of seeing you:—but am I then really so altered?” said -he turning to her, and looking full in her face, “that you cannot even -guess my name?” “Had I ever beheld you before,” answered Lady Avondale, -“I could not have forgotten it.” He bowed with a look of conceit, and -Lady Avondale coloured at his comprehending the compliment, she had -sufficiently intended to make. Smiling at her confusion, he assured her -he had a right to her attention—“_Stesso sangue, Stessa sorte_”—said he -in a low voice. - -Calantha could hardly believe it possible:—the words he pronounced were -those inscribed on her bracelet. “And are you my cousin?” said she: “is -it indeed so? no: I cannot believe it.” Buchanan bowed again. “Yes,” -said he; “and a pretty cousin you have proved yourself to me. I had -vowed never to forgive you; but you are much too lovely and too dear -for me to wish to keep my oath.” A thousand remembrances now crowded on -her mind—the days of her infancy—the amusements and occupations of her -childhood; and she looked vainly in Buchanan’s face, for the smallest -traces of the boy she had known so well. Delighted with her evening’s -adventure, and solely occupied with her companion, the masquerade, the -heat and all other annoyances were forgotten, till Lady Dartford being -fatigued, entreated her to retire. - -She had conversed during the greater part of the evening with Lord -Dartford. The female gipsey to whose party he belonged, and who had -attacked Lady Avondale, was Lady Margaret Buchanan. He had asked Lady -Dartford many questions about himself, to all of which she had answered -with a reserve that had pleased him, and with a praise so unaffected, so -heartfelt, and so little deserved, that he could not but deeply feel his -own demerit. He did not make himself known, but suffered Lady Margaret -to rally and torment his unoffending wife; asking her repeatedly, why so -pretty, and so young, Lord Dartford permitted her to go to a masquerade -without a protector. “It is,” replied Lady Dartford innocently, “that he -dislikes this sort of amusement, and knows well, that those who appear -unprotected, are sure of finding friends.” At this speech Lady Margaret -laughed prodigiously; and turning to the Friar, who, much disguised, -still followed her, asked him, if he had never seen Lord Dartford at a -masquerade, giving it as her opinion, that he was very fond of this sort -of amusement, and was probably there at that very moment. - -In the mean time, Calantha continued to talk with Buchanan, and eagerly -enquired of him who it was who, thus disguised, had with so much acrimony -attacked her. “I do not know the young man,” he answered:—“my mother -calls him Viviani:—he is much with her; but he ever wears a disguise, I -think; for no one sees him; and, except Gondimar, he seems not to have -another acquaintance in England.” - -It has been said that the weak-minded are alone attracted by the eye; -and they who say this, best know what they mean. To Calantha it appeared -that the eye was given her for no other purpose than to admire all that -was fair and beautiful. Certain it is, she made that use of her’s; and -whether the object of such admiration was man, woman, or child, horse or -flower, if excellent in its kind, she ever gave them the trifling homage -of her approbation. Her new-found cousin was therefore hailed by her -with the most encouraging smile; and how long she might have listened -to the account he was giving her of his exploits, is unknown, had not -Frances approached her in a hasty manner, and said, “Do come away:—the -strangest thing possible has happened to me:—Lord Trelawney has proposed -to me, and I—I have accepted his offer.” “Accepted his offer!” Calantha -exclaimed, with a look of horror. “Oh, pray, keep my secret till we get -home,” said Frances. “I dare not tell Sophia; but you must break it to -my mother.” - -Lord Trelawney was a silly florid young man, who laughed very heartily and -good humouredly, without the least reason. He wore the dress, and had been -received in that class of men, whom Lady Augusta called the exquisites. -He had professed the most extravagant adoration for Lady Avondale, so -that she was quite astonished at his having attached himself so suddenly -to Frances; but not being of a jealous turn, she wished her joy most -cordially, and when she did the same by him,—“Could not help what I’ve -done,” he said, looking tenderly at her through a spying-glass:—“total -dearth of something else to say:—can never affection her much:—but she’s -your cousin, you know:”—and then he laughed. - -Lady Avondale prevailed on Frances to keep this important secret from her -mother till morning, as that good lady had not long been in bed, and to -arouse her with such unexpected news at five o’clock had been cruel and -useless. The next morning, long before Lady Avondale had arisen, every -one knew the secret; and very soon after, preparations for the marriage -were made. The young bride received presents and congratulations: her -spirits were exuberant; and her lover, perfect and delightful. Even Lady -Avondale beheld him with new eyes, and the whole family, whenever he was -mentioned, spoke of him as a remarkably sensible young man, extremely -well informed, and possessed of every quality best adapted to ensure -the happiness of domestic life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -From the night of the masquerade, Lady Avondale dared hardly confess to -herself, how entirely she found her thoughts engrossed by Buchanan. She -met him again at a ball. He entreated her to let him call on her the -ensuing day:—he said he had much to tell her:—his manner was peculiar; -and his eyes, though not full of meaning in general, had a certain look -of interest that gratified the vainest of human hearts. “I shall be -at home till two,” said Calantha. “I shall be with you at twelve,” he -answered.—Late as the hour of rest might appear to some, Calantha was -up, and attired with no ordinary care to receive him, at the time he -had appointed. Yet no Buchanan came.—Oh! could the petty triflers in -vanity and vice, know the power they gain, and the effect they produce -by these arts, they would contemn the facility of their own triumph. -It is ridiculous to acknowledge it, but this disappointment increased -Calantha’s anxiety to see him to the greatest possible degree: she scarce -could disguise the interest it created. - -Gondimar unfortunately called at the moment when Calantha was most -impatient and irritable. “You expected another,” he said sarcastically; -“but I care not. I came not here in the hope of pleasing Lady Avondale. -I came to inform her.”—“I cannot attend now.” “Read this letter,” said -Gondimar. Calantha looked carelessly upon it—it was from himself:—it -contained an avowal of attachment and of interest for her; in proof -of which he asked permission to offer her a gift, which he said he was -commissioned to bring her from Italy. Lady Avondale returned the letter -coldly, and with little affectation of dignity, declined the intended -present. It is so easy to behave well, when it is our pleasure to do so, -as well as our duty. Gondimar, however, gave her but little credit for -her conduct. “You like me not?” he said. “Do you doubt my virtue?” she -replied eagerly. “Aye, Lady—or, at all events, your power of preserving -it.” - -Whilst Gondimar yet spoke, Buchanan galopped by the window, and stopped -at the door of the house. His hands were decorated with rings, and a -gold chain and half-concealed picture hung around his neck:—his height, -his mustachios, the hussar trappings of his horse, the high colour in -his cheek, and his dark flowing locks, gave an air of savage wildness to -his countenance and figure, which much delighted Calantha. He entered -with familiar ease; talked much of himself, and more of some of his -military friends; stared at Gondimar, and then shook hands with him. After -which, he began a vehement explanation of his conduct respecting Alice; -assuring Calantha upon his honour—upon his soul, that he had no hand in -her elopement. He then talked of Ireland; described the dreadful, the -exaggerated accounts of what had occurred there; and ended by assuring -Gondimar that the young Glenarvon was not dead, but was at this time at -Belfont, concealed there with no other view than that of heading the -rebels. The accounts which the Duke of Altamonte had received in part -corroborated Buchanan’s statement. - -Calantha listened, however, with more interest to the accounts Buchanan -now gave; and as he said he was but just returned from Dublin, even -Gondimar thought the news which he brought worthy of some attention. -“Send that damned Italian away,” said Buchanan in a loud whisper—“I have -a million of things to tell you. If you keep him here, I shall go:—my -remaining will be of no use.” Unaccustomed to curb herself in the least -wish, Calantha now whispered to Gondimar, that she wished him to leave -her, as she had something very particular to say to her cousin; but he -only smiled contemptuously upon him, and sternly asking her, since when -this amazing intimacy had arisen—placed himself near the pianoforte, -striking its chords with accompaniments till the annoyance was past -bearing. - -Buchanan consoled himself by talking of his dogs and horses; and having -given Calantha a list of the names of each, began enumerating to her the -invitations he had received for the ensuing week. Fortunately, at this -moment, a servant entered with a note for Gondimar. “Does the bearer -wait?” he exclaimed with much agitation upon reading it; and immediately -left the room. - -Upon returning home, Count Gondimar perceived with surprise, in the place -of the person he had expected, one of the attendants of the late Countess -of Glenarvon,—a man whose countenance and person he well remembered -from its peculiarly harsh and unpleasant expression.—“Is my young Lord -alive?” said the man in a stern manner. Count Gondimar replied in the -negative. “Then, Sir, I must trouble you with those affairs which most -nearly concern him.” “Your name, I think is Macpherson?” said Count -Gondimar. “You lived with the Countess of Glenarvon.” The man bowed, -and giving a letter into the hands of the Count, “I am come from Italy -at this time,” he replied, “in search of my late master—La Crusca and -myself.” “Is La Crusca with you?” said Gondimar starting. “The letter -will inform you of every particular,” replied the man with some gravity. -“I shall wait for the child, or your farther orders.” Saying this, he -left the Count’s apartment; and returned into the anti-chamber, where -a beautiful little boy was waiting for him. - -On that very evening, after a long conversation with Macpherson, Count -Gondimar again sought Calantha at her father’s house, where, upon -enquiring for her, he was immediately admitted. After some little -hesitation, he told her that he had brought her the present of which he -had made mention in his letter; that if she had the unkindness to refuse -it, some other perhaps would take charge of it:—it was a gift which, -however unworthy he was to offer it, he thought would be dearer in her -estimation than the finest jewels, and the most costly apparel:—it was a -fair young boy, he said, fitted to be a Lady’s page, and trained in every -cunning art his tender years could learn. “He will be a play mate;” he -said smiling, “for your son, and when,” added he in a lower voice, “the -little Mowbrey can speak, he will learn to lisp in that language which -alone expresses all that the heart would utter—all that in a barbarous -dialect it dares not—must not say.” - -As he yet spoke, he took the hat from off Zerbellini’s head, and gently -pushing him towards Calantha, asked him to sue for her protection. The -child immediately approached, hiding himself with singular fear from -the caresses of the Count. “Zerbellini,” said Gondimar in Italian, “will -you love that lady?” “In my heart;” replied the boy, shrinking back to -Calantha, as if to a late found but only friend. Sophia was called, and -joined in the general interest and admiration the child excited. Frances -shewed him to Lord Trelawney, who laughed excessively at beholding him. -Lady Margaret, who was present, looking upon him stedfastly, shrunk as -if she had seen a serpent in her way, and then recovering herself, held -her hand out towards him. Zerbellini fixed his eyes on Calantha, as if -watching in her countenance for the only commands which he was to obey; -and when she drew him towards her aunt, he knelt to her, and kissed her -hand with the customary grace and courtesy of an Italian. - -From that day Calantha thought of nothing but Zerbellini. He was a new -object of interest:—to dress him, to amuse him, to shew him about, was -her great delight. Wherever she went he must accompany her: in whatever -she did or said, Zerbellini must bear a part. The Duke of Myrtlegrove -advised her to make him her page; and for this purpose he ordered him -the dress of an Eastern slave. Buchanan gave him a chain with a large -turquoise heart; and as he placed it around the boy, he glanced his eye -on Calantha. Presents, however, even more magnificent were in return -immediately dispatched by her to the Duke, and to Buchanan. - -Count Gondimar read the letters Calantha had written with the gifts; for -she had left them, as was her custom, open upon the table. All she wrote, -or received, were thus left; not from ostentation, but indifference and -carelessness. “Are you mad,” said the Italian “or worse than mad?” “I -affect it not,” replied Lady Avondale. “I conclude, therefore that it is -real.” Indeed there was a strange compound in Calantha’s mind. She felt -but little accountable for her actions, and she often had observed that -if ever she had the misfortune to reflect and consequently to resolve -against any particular mode of conduct, the result was that she ever -fell into the error she had determined to avoid. She might indeed have -said that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak; for whatever -she resolved, upon the slightest temptation to the contrary, she failed -to execute. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -“I am astonished my dear Gondimar,” said Viviani one day, addressing -him, “at the description which you gave me of Lady Avondale. I have seen -her since we conversed together about her, more than once; and there is -not, I think, much trace left of that excessive timidity of manner—that -monastic rigidity in her opinions and conduct, of which you made mention -in one of your letters from Castle Delaval.” “I was wrong, utterly wrong,” -said Gondimar, “and you may now rank this model of purity, this paragon -of wives, this pupil of nature, whom I have so often praised to you, -on a level with the rest of her fellow mortals.” “Not on a level—not -on a level,” replied Viviani with gravity; “but falling as I fear, far -beneath it.” - -The Count then repeated in a solemn tone the description of Rome which -Lucian has placed in the mouth of Nigrinus applying the enumeration of -vices, temptations and corruptions, attributed to the fairest capital of -the world, to London; and then asked of Gondimar, if it were possible -for one like Calantha to sojourn long amidst such scenes, without in -some measure acquiring the manners, if not falling into the errors to -which the eyes and ears were every hour accustomed? He spoke of her -with regret, as he thus pronounced her on the verge of ruin:—“a prey,” -he said indignantly, “for the spoiler—the weak and willing victim of -vanity.” “The courts of her father are overrun with petitioners and -mendicants,” said Gondimar: “her apartments are filled with flatterers -who feed upon her credulity: she is in love with ruin: it stalks about -in every possible shape, and in every shape, she hails it:—woe is it; -victim of prosperity, luxury and self indulgence.” - -“And Avondale,” said Viviani. “Lord Avondale,” replied the Count, “knows -not, thinks not, comprehends not her danger or his own. But the hour -of perdition approaches; the first years of peace and love are past; -folly succeeds; and vice is the after game. These are the three stages -in woman’s life. Calantha is swiftly passing through the second:—the -third will succeed. The days and months once glided away in a dream of -joy, dangerous and illusive—in a dream, I repeat; for all that depends -on the excess and durability of any violent passion, must be called a -dream. Such passion, even though sanctioned by the most sacred ties, if -it engrosses every thought, is not innocent—cannot be lawful. It plants -the seeds of corruption which flourish and gain strength hereafter. This -is the climate in which they will soonest ripen:—this is the garden -and soil, where they take the most rapid, and the deepest root.” “And -think you, that Calantha and Avondale, are already weary of each other? -that the warm and vivid imagination of youthful love is satiated with -excess? or that disappointment has followed upon a nearer view?” “All -passion,” replied Gondimar—falling back and impressively raising his -hand—“all passion is founded on”...“Friend,” said Viviani, “thy prate is -unmercifully tedious,”—“I half believe that thou art thyself in love with -this Calantha; but for an explanation and detail of that master passion, -I know not why I applied to you: Calantha is the object of your pursuit -not mine.” “Of my pursuit! in truth I believe you feel more interest -in her conduct than I do, I am old and weary of these follies; life is -just opening upon you; Calantha is your idol” “No,” replied Viviani, -with a smile of scorn. “It is not that party coloured butterfly, which -ranges ever from flower to flower, spreading its light pinions in the -summer breeze, or basking in the smiles of fortune, for which my life is -consumed, my soul is scorched with living fire, and my mind is impaired -and lost! Oh would to heaven that it were! No arts, no crimes were then -required to win and to enjoy. The pulse of passion beats high within -her, and pleads for the lover who dares to ask. Wild fancy, stimulated -by keen sensibility and restless activity of mind, without employment, -render her easy to be approached, and easy to be influenced and worked -upon. Love is the nature of these favourites of fortune: from earliest -infancy—they feel its power! and their souls enervated, live but upon -its honied vows. Chaste—pure! What are these terms? The solitary recluse -is not chaste, as I have heard; and these, never—never.” - -“Yet Lady Margaret you say is unmoved.” “What of Lady Margaret?” -interrupted Viviani, while bitter smiles quivered upon his lip. “Do you -mark the pavement of stone upon which you tread? Do you see the steel -of which this sabre is composed—once heated by the flames, now hard -and insensible?—so cold,—so petrified is the heart, when it has once -given full vent to passion. Marble is that heart which only beats for -my destruction. The time is not yet arrived, but I will dash the cup of -joy from her lips; then drink the dregs myself, and die.” “Mere jealous -threats,” said Gondimar. “The curse of innocent blood is on her,” replied -Viviani, as his livid cheeks and lips resumed a purple dye. “Name her no -more.” “Explain yourself,” cried his astonished friend. “You frequently -allude to scenes of deeper guilt and horror, than I dare even suffer -myself to imagine possible.” “The heart of man is unfathomable,” replied -Viviani;—“that which seems, is not:—that which is, seems not: we should -neither trust our eyes nor ears, in a world like this. But time, which -ripens all things, shall disclose the secrets even of the dead.” - -A short time after this conversation with Gondimar, Viviani took leave -of him. He informed him fully of his projects; and Lady Margaret was -also consulted upon the occasion. “What is become of your menaced -vengeance,” she said, smiling upon him, in their last parting interview. -He laughed at the remembrance of his words. “Am I the object now of your -abhorrence,” she said, placing her white hand carelessly upon his head. -“Not absolutely,” replied the young Count, shrinking, however, from -the pressure of that hand. “Touch me not,” he whispered more earnestly, -“it thrills through my soul.—Keep those endearments for Dartford: leave -me in peace.” Immediately after this he left London; and by the first -letter Lady Margaret received from him, she found that he was preparing -to embark. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -Frances Seymour’s marriage with Lord Trelawny was now celebrated, after -which the whole family left London for Ireland. - -Sophia, previous to her departure, reproved Calantha for her obstinacy, -as she called it, in remaining in town. “I leave you with pain,” she -said: “forgive me if I say it, for I see you have no conception of the -folly of your conduct. Ever in extremes, you have acted as I little -expected from the wife of Lord Avondale; but I blame him equally for -giving you such unbounded freedom:—only the very wise and the very -good know how to use it.” “Sophia,” replied Calantha, “I wish not for -reproaches:—have confidence in me:—we cannot all be exactly alike. You -are a pattern of propriety and virtue, and verily you have your reward:—I -act otherwise, and am prepared for censures:—even yours cannot offend -me. Lord Avondale talks of soon returning to Ireland: I shall then -leave this dear delightful London without regret; and you shall find -me when we all meet for the spring at Castle Delaval, just the same, as -when I entered it.” “Never the same,” thought Sophia, who marked, with -astonishment, the change a few months had made. - -They were yet speaking, and taking a cold farewell of each other, when -a thundering rap at the door interrupted them, and before Sophia could -retreat, Mr. Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady Mandeville were ushered in. -A frozen courtesy, and an austere frown, were the only signs of animation -Sophia gave, as she vanished from their view; for she seemed hardly to -have energy sufficient left, to walk out of the room in an ordinary manner. - -“You have been ill,” said Lady Mandeville, accosting Calantha. “It is -a week since I have seen you. Think not, however, that I am come to -intrude upon your time: I only called, as I passed your door, to enquire -after you. Mr. Fremore tells me you are about to visit the Princess -of Madagascar. Is this true? for I never believe any thing I hear?” -“For once,” said Calantha, “you may do so; and on this very evening, -my introduction is to take place.” “It is with regret I hear it,” said -Lady Mandeville with a sigh: “we shall never more see any thing of you. -Besides, she is not my friend.” Calantha assured Lady Mandeville her -attachment could endure all sorts of trials; and laughingly enquired -of her respecting her lovers, Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she -was employed in translating. Lady Mandeville answered her with some -indifference on these subjects; and having said all that she could in -order to dissuade her against visiting the Princess, took her leave. - -That evening, at the hour of ten, Lord Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in -readiness, Calantha drove according to appointment to visit the wife of -the great Nabob, the Princess of Madagascar. Now who is so ignorant as -not to know that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned gothic building, -called Barbary House, three miles beyond the turnpike? and who is so -ignorant as not to be aware that her highness would not have favoured -Lady Avondale with an audience, had she been otherwise than extremely well -with the world, as the phrase is—for she was no patroness of the fallen! -the caresses and _petits mots obligeants_ which dropt from her during -this her first interview, raised Lady Avondale in her own opinion; but -that was unnecessary. What was more to the purpose, it won her entirely -towards the Princess. - -Calantha now, for the first time, conversed with the learned of the -land:—she heard new opinions started, and old ones refuted; and she gazed -unhurt, but not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, critics, and politicians. -At the end of a long gallery, two thick wax tapers, rendering “darkness -visible,” the princess was seated. A poet of an emaciated and sallow -complexion stood beside her; of him it was affirmed that in apparently -the kindest and most engaging manner, he, at all times, said precisely -that which was most unpleasant to the person he appeared to praise. This -yellow hyena had, however, a heart noble, magnanimous and generous; and -even his friends, could they but escape from his smile and his tongue, -had no reason to complain. Few events, if any, were ever known to move -the Princess from her position. Her pages—her foreign attire, but genuine -English manners, voice and complexion, attracted universal admiration. -She was beautiful too, and had a smile it was difficult to learn to hate -or to mistrust. She spoke of her own country with contempt; and, even in -her dress, which was magnificent, attempted to prove the superiority of -every other over it. Her morals were simple and uncorrupt, and in matters -of religious faith she entirely surrendered herself to the guidance of -Hoiaouskim. She inclined her head a little upon seeing Lady Avondale; -the _dead_, I mean the sick poet, did the same; and Hoiaouskim, her high -priest, cast his eyes, with unassuming civility, upon Calantha, thus -welcoming her to Barbary House. - -The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much -she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides, -in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every -one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by -young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashion -and power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a -slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness -nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when -necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?” -said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned -Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting, -or is this reality?” “It is the only reality you will ever find in the -Princess,” returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar -from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from -favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none -ever continued there long.” - -“But why,” said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other -Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savages”—“Reviewers, you mean, -and men of talents.” “Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they -wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?” “It is the -fashion,” replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,” said -Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.” “The great -Nabob,” quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the -kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would -sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting -these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so -overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart -her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the -duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded; -that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever -the best received.” “And if I also bow my neck,” said Calantha, “will -she be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?” The Poet’s -naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry. - -Cold Princess! where are your boasted professions now? You taught Calantha -to love you, by every petty art of which your sex is mistress. She heard, -from your lips, the sugared poisons you were pleased to lavish upon her. -You laughed at her follies, courted her confidence, and flattered her -into a belief that you loved her. Loved her!—it is a feeling you never -felt. She fell into the mire; the arrows of your precious crew were shot -at her—like hissing snakes hot and sharpened with malice and venomed -fire; and you, yes—you were the first to scorn her:—you, by whom she -had stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host of foes—aye, amidst the -fawning rabble, who still crowd your doors, and laugh at and despise -you. Thanks for the helping hand of friendship in the time of need—the -mud and the mire have been washed from Calantha; the arrows have been -drawn from a bleeding bosom; the heart is still sound, and beats to -disdain you. The sun may shine fairly again upon her; but never, whilst -existence is prolonged, will she set foot in the gates of the Palace of -the great Nabob, or trust to the smiles and professions of the Princess -of Madagascar. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -“And what detains you in town?” said Gondimar, on the eve of Mrs. Seymour -and Sophia’s departure. “Will this love of gaiety never subside. Tell -me, Lady Avondale, do you believe all that the Duke of Myrtlegrove, -and your more warlike cousin have said to you?—What means the blush on -your indignant cheek? The young duke is more enamoured of the lustre -of his diamond ring and broach, than of the brightest eyes that ever -gazed on him; and though the words glory and renown drop from the mouth -of Buchanan, love, I think, has lost his time in aiming arrows at his -heart. Has he one?—I think not? But who has one in London?” “You have -not assuredly,” said the Count: “and, if you knew the censures that -are every where passed upon you, I think, for Lord Avondale’s sake, you -would regret it.” “I do; but indeed—” - -The entrance of Buchanan put a stop to this conversation. “Are you ready?” -he cried. “Ready! I have waited for you three hours: it is five, and you -promised to come before two.” “You would excuse me, I am sure, if you knew -how excessively ill I have been. I am but this moment out of bed. That -accursed hazard kept me up till ten this morning. Once, I sat two days -and nights at it: but it’s no matter.” “You take no care of yourself.—I -wish for my sake you would.” The manner in which Calantha said this, was -most particularly flattering and kind: it was, indeed, ever so; but the -return she met with (like the lady who loved the swine. “Honey,” quoth -she, “thou shalt in silver salvers dine.” “Humph,” quoth he) was most -uncourteous. “Truly I care not if I am knocked on the head to-morrow,” -replied Buchanan. “There is nothing worth living for in life: every thing -annoys me: I am sick of all society, Love, sentiment, is my abhorrence.” -“But driving, dearest Buchanan,—riding,—your mother—your—your cousin.” -“Oh, d..n it; don’t talk about it. It’s all a great bore.” - -“And can Lady Avondale endure this jargon?” “What is that Italian here -again?” whispered Buchanan. “But come, let’s go. My horses must not -wait, they are quite unbroke; and the boy can’t hold them. Little Jem -yesterday had his ribs broke; and this youngster’s no hand. Where shall we -drive?” “To perdition,” whispered Gondimar. “Can’t wait,” said Buchanan, -impatiently: and Calantha hurried away. - -The curricle was beautiful; the horses fiery; Buchanan in high spirits; -and Calantha—ah must it be confessed?—more elated with this exhibition -through the crowded streets, than she could have been at the most glorious -achievement. “Drive faster,—faster still,” she continually said, to shew -her courage. Alas! real courage delights not in parade; but anything that -had the appearance of risk or danger, delighted Calantha. “Damn it, how -Alice pulls.” “Alice!” said Calantha. “Oh hang it; don’t talk of that. -Here’s Will Rattle, let me speak to him; and Dick, the boxer’s son. Do -you mind stopping? Not in the least.” Saying which they pulled in, as -Buchanan termed it; and a conversation ensued, which amused Calantha -extremely. “How soon shall you be off?” said Will Rattle, as they prepared -to drive on.—“It’s a devilish bore staying in London now,” replied -Buchanan: “only I’ve been commanded to stay,” saying which he smiled, -and turned to Lady Avondale, “or I should have been with my regiment -before this. The moment I am released, however, I shall go there.—Hope -to see you to-night, Will. Mind and bring Charles Turner.—There’s a new -play. Oh I forgot:—perhaps I shan’t be let off; shall I?” “No,” replied -Calantha, extremely pleased at this flattering appeal. Will bowed with -conceit, and off they galloped, Buchanan repeating as they went, “A -damned strange fellow that—cleverer than half the people though, who make -such a noise. I saved his life once in an engagement. Poor Will, he’s -so grateful, he would give all he has for me,—I’ll be d—d if he would -not.” Let this suffice. The drive was not very long; and, the danger of -being overturned excepted, utterly devoid of interest. - -Lady Dartford had returned to town. Perhaps no one ever heard that -she had left it: like the rose leaf upon the glass full of water, her -innocent presence made not the slightest difference, nor was her absence -at any time observed. She, however, called upon Calantha, a few moments -after Buchanan had taken her home. Lady Avondale was with her lord, in -the library when she came. “Why did you let her in?” she said rather -crossly to the servant; when another loud rap at the door announced Lady -Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn. Calantha was writing a letter; and -Lord Avondale was talking to her of the arrangements for their departure. -“I wish I ever could see you one moment alone,” he said, “Say I am -coming—or shall not come,” she replied; and during the time she remained -to finish the conversation with her husband, she could not help amusing -herself with the thought of Lady Dartford’s alarm, at finding herself -in the presence of Lady Mandeville, whom she did not visit. “You do not -attend at all,” said Lord Avondale; “you are of no use whatever;” Alas! -he had already found that the mistress of his momentary passion, was not -the friend and companion of his more serious thoughts. Calantha was of -no use to any one. She began to feel the bitterness of this certainty, -but she fled from the reflection with pain. - -Eager to amuse Lady Dartford, Lady Augusta, who knew her well, entertained -her till Lady Avondale joined them, with a variety of anecdotes of all -that had taken place since her departure; and, having soon exhausted -other subjects, began upon Calantha herself. “She is positively in love -with Captain Buchanan,” said she. “At every ball he dances with her; at -every supper he is by her side; all London is talking of it. Only think -too how strange, just as he was said to have proposed to Miss Macvicker—a -fortune—twenty thousand a year—a nice girl, who really looks unhappy. -Poor thing, it is very hard on her.—I always feel for girls.” “Come,” -said Lady Mandeville, “last night you know, they did not interchange a -word: he talked the whole evening to that young lady with the singular -name. How I detest gossiping and scandal. Calantha deserves not this.” -“Bless us, how innocent we are all of a sudden,” interrupted Lady Augusta! -“have you any pretentions, dearest lady, to that innoxtious quality? Now -are you not aware that this is the very perfection of the art of making -love—this not speaking? But this is what always comes of those who are -so mighty fond of their husbands. Heavens, how sick I have been of all -the stories of their romantic attachment. There is nothing, my dear, -like Miss Seymour, or making one sick. She always gives me the vapours.” - -“Where do you go to-night?” said Lady Dartford, wishing to interrupt a -conversation which gave her but little pleasure. “Oh, to fifty places; -but I came here partly too in the hope of engaging Lady Avondale to -come to me to-night. She is a dear soul, and I do not like her the worse -for shewing a little spirit.” “I cannot,” said Lady Mandeville, “think -there is much in this; a mere caprice, founded on both sides in a little -vanity. After seeing Lord Avondale, I cannot believe there is the smallest -danger for her. Good heavens, if I had possessed such a husband!” “Oh, -now for sentiment,” said Augusta: “and God knows, if I had possessed a -dozen such, I should have felt as I do at this moment. Variety—variety! -Better change for the worse than always see the same object.” “Well, -if you do not allow the merit of Henry Avondale to outweigh this love -of variety, what say you to Mr. Buchanan, being her cousin, brought up -with her from a child.” “Thanks for the hint—you remember the song of - - “_Nous nous aimions dès l’enfance - Tête-à-Tête à chaque instant._” - -and I am certain, my dear sentimental friend, that - - “_A notre place - Vous en auriez fait autant._” - -Then going up to the glass Lady Augusta bitterly inveighed against -perverse nature, who with such a warm heart, had given her such an ugly -face. “Do you know,” she said, still gazing upon her uncouth features, -addressing herself to Lady Dartford—“do you know that I have fallen in -love myself, since I saw you;—and with whom do you think?” “I think I -can guess, and shall take great credit to myself, if I am right. Is not -the happy man an author?” said Lady Dartford.—“You have him, upon my -honour—Mr. Clarendon, by all that is wonderful:—he is positively the -cleverest man about town.—Well I am glad to see my affairs also make -some little noise in the world,”—“I can tell you however,” said Lady -Mandeville, “that he is already engaged;—and Lady Mounteagle occupies -every thought of his heart.” - -“Good gracious, my dear, living and loving have done but little for you; -and the dead languages prevent your judging of living objects.—Engaged! -you talk of falling in love, as if it were a matrimonial contract -for life. Now don’t you know that every thing in nature is subject to -change:—it rains to-day—it shines to-morrow;—we laugh,—we cry;—and the -thermometer of love rises and falls, like the weather glass, from the -state of the atmosphere:—one while it is at freezing point;—another it -is at fever heat.—How then should the only imaginary thing in the whole -affair—the object I mean which is _always purely ideal_—how should that -remain the same?” - -Lady Mandeville smiled a little, and turning her languid blue eyes upon -Lady Dartford, asked her if she were of the christian persuasion? Lady -Dartford was perfectly confounded:—she hesitatingly answered in the -affirmative. Upon which, Lady Augusta fell back in her chair, and laughed -immoderately; but fearful of offending her newly made acquaintance, -observed to her, that she wore the prettiest hat she had ever seen. -“Where did you get it?” said she.—The question was a master key to Lady -Dartford’s thoughts:—caps, hats and works of every description were -as much a solace to her, in the absence of her husband, as the greek -language, or the pagan philosophy could ever have been to Lady Mandeville, -under any of her misfortunes.—“I got it,” said she, brightening up -with a grateful look, at the only enquiry she had heard, that was at -all adapted to her understanding, at Madame de la Roche’s:—“it is the -cheapest thing you can conceive:—I only gave twenty guineas for it:—and -you know I am not reckoned very clever at making bargains.” “I should -think not,” answered Lady Augusta, adverting only to the first part of -the sentence. - -Calantha entered at this moment. “Oh my sweet soul,” said Lady Augusta, -embracing her, “I began to despair of seeing you.—But what was the matter -with you last night? I had just been saying that you looked so very grave. -Notwithstanding which, Lord Dallas could think, and talk only of you. He -says your chevelure is perfectly grecian—the black ringlets upon the white -skin; but I never listen to any compliment that is not paid directly or -indirectly to myself. He is quite adorable:—do you not think so, hey?—no—I -see he is too full of admiration for you—too refined. Lady Avondale’s -heart must be won in a far different manner:—insult—rudeness—is the way -to it.—What! blush so deeply! Is the affair, then, too serious for a -jest? Why, _mon enfant_, you look like Miss Macvicker this morning.—And -is it true she will soon be united to you by the ties of blood, as she -now seems to be by those of sympathy and congeniality of soul?” - -The eternal Count Gondimar, and afterwards Buchanan interrupted Lady -Augusta’s attack. New topics of discourse were discussed:—it will be -needless to detail them:—time presses. Balls, assemblies follow:—every -day exhibited a new scene of frivolity and extravagance;—every night -was passed in the same vortex of fashionable dissipation. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -The spring was far advanced. Calantha’s health required the sea air; -but her situation rendered a long journey hazardous. Lord Avondale -resolved to await her confinement in England. The birth of a daughter -was an additional source of happiness: Anabel was the name given to the -little infant. Harry Mowbray was now in his second year. The accounts -from Ireland were more satisfactory. Mrs. Seymour wrote constantly to -Calantha regretting her absence. Weeks, however, flew by, in the same -thoughtless vanities: months passed away without regret or care.—Autumn -was gone:—winter again approached.—London, though deserted, by the -crowd, was still gay. Calantha lived much with her Aunt Margaret, Lady -Mandeville, and the Princess of Madagascar. The parks and streets, but -lately so thronged with carriages, were now comparatively lonely and -deserted. Like the swallows at the appointed hour, the gay tribe of -fashionable idlers had vanished; and a new set of people appeared in -their place:—whence, or why, nobody could guess. - -One day Zerbellini, Calantha’s little page, had just returned -with a note from Buchanan; a french hair dresser was cutting her -hair; milliners and jewellers were displaying upon every table new -dresses—caps—chains—rings—for the ensuing winter; and Calantha’s eye was -dazzled—her ear was charmed—when her aunt Margaret entered.—“God bless -your Ladyship, God preserve you,” said a woman half starved, who was -waiting for an answer to her petition.—“_Mi Lady; ne prendra-t-elle pas -ce petit bonnet?_” said Madame la Roche. “Yes, every thing, any thing,” -she answered impatiently, as she got up to receive her aunt.—She was -unusually grave. Calantha trembled; for she thought she was prepared to -speak to her about Buchanan. She was extremely relieved when she found -that her censures turned solely upon her page. “Why keep that little -foreign minion?” she said, indignantly. “Is the Count Viviani so very -dear, that any present of his must be thus treasured up and valued?” -“The Count Viviani?” said Calantha astonished: “who is he?”—“Well, then, -Gondimar,” replied Lady Margaret. “Calantha—as a favour, I request you -send back that boy.”—Lady Avondale’s prayers were at first her sole -reply; and like Titania, in her second, when Oberon demanded the trusty -Henchman, she boldly refused. Lady Margaret left her immediately:—she -was calm, but offended. She was then going to Castle Delaval. Calantha -told her they should join her there in the course of the next month. -She only smiled, with a look of incredulity and contempt; asking her, if -her beloved Henry would really be so cruel as to tear her away at last -from London? and saying this she took leave. - -Lord Avondale and Calantha had been conversing on this very subject in the -morning. He was surprised at her ready acquiescence in his wish to return -to Ireland. “You are then still the same,” he said affectionately.—“I am -the same,” she replied rather fretfully; “but you are changed:—every one -tells me you neglect me.” “And have they who tell you so,” said he with -a sigh, “any very good motive in thus endeavouring to injure me in your -opinion? If I attended to what every one said, Calantha, perhaps I too -should have some reason to complain.—Business of importance has alone -engaged my attention. You know I am not one who assumes much; and if I -say that I have been employed, you may depend on its being the case. I -hope, then, I am not wrong when I have confided myself, and every thing -that is dearest to me, to your honour and your love.”—“Ah no:—you are -not wrong,” she answered; “but perhaps if you confided less, and saw -more of me, it would be better. Before marriage, a woman has her daily -occupations: she looks for the approving smile of her parents:—she has -friends who cheer her—who take interest in her affairs. But when we -marry, Henry, we detach ourselves from all, to follow one guide. For the -first years, we are the constant object of your solicitude:—you watch -over us with even a tenderer care than those whom we have left, and then -you leave us—leave us too, among the amiable and agreeable, yet reprove -us, if we confide in them, or love them. Marriage is the annihilation -of love.” - -“The error is in human nature,” said Lord Avondale smiling—“We always -see perfection in that which we cannot approach:—there is a majesty in -distance and rarity, which every day’s intercourse wears off. Besides, -love delights in gazing upon that which is superior:—whilst we believe you -angels, we kneel to you, we are your slaves;—we awake and find women, and -expect obedience:—and is it not what you were made for?”—“Henry, we are -made your idols too—too long, to bear this sad reverse:—you should speak -to us in the language of truth from the first, or never.—Obey—is a fearful -word to those who have lived without hearing it; and truth from lips which -have accustomed us to a dearer language, sounds harsh and discordant. -We have renounced society, and all the dear ties of early friendship, -to form one strong engagement, and if that fails, what are we in the -world?—beings without hope, or interest—dependants—encumbrances—shadows -of former joys—solitary wanderers in quest of false pleasures—or lonely -recluses, unblessing and unblest.” - -Calantha had talked herself into tears, at the conclusion of this -sentence; and Lord Avondale, smiling at a description she had given, so -little according with the gay being who stood before him, pressed her -fondly to his bosom; and said he would positively hear no more. “You treat -me like a child—a fool,”—she said:—“you forget that I am a reasonable -creature.” “I do, indeed, Calantha:—you so seldom do any thing to remind -me of it.” “Well, Henry, one day you shall find your error. I feel that -within, which tells me that I could be superior—aye—very superior to -those who cavil at my faults, and first encourage and then ridicule me -for them. I love—I honour you, Henry. You never flatter me. Even if you -neglect me, you have confidence in me—and, thank God, my heart is still -worthy of some affection.—It is yet time to amend.” Calantha—thought it -had been—as she took in haste a review of her former conduct—of time, -how neglected!—friends, how estranged!—money lavished in vain!—and health -impaired by the excess of late hours, and endless, ceaseless dissipation. - -London had still attractions for Calantha; but the thought of fresh air, -and green fields recurring, she was soon prepared for the journey. She -passed the intervening days before her departure in taking leave of her -friends. Lady Mandeville, in bidding adieu to her, affirmed that the -interchange of ideas between congenial souls, would never be lessened, -nor interrupted by absence. She would write to her, she said, and she -would think of her; and, seeing Calantha was really sorry to part with -her, “You have none of the philosophy,” she said, “which your cousin -and your aunt possess, and every trifle, therefore, has power to afflict -you:—you scarcely know me, and yet you are grieved to leave me. Promise -ever to judge of me by what you see yourself, and not through the medium -of others; for the world, which I despise from my soul, has long sought -to crush me, because I had pride of character enough to think for myself.” - -If any thing had been wanting to strengthen Calantha’s regard, this boast -had been sure of its effect; for it was one of her favourite opinions, -not indeed that the world should be despised, but that persons should -dare to think, and act for themselves, even though against its judgments. -She was not then, aware how this cant phrase is ever in the mouths of the -veriest slaves to prejudice,—how little real independence of character is -found amongst those who have lost sight of virtue. Like spendthrifts, who -boast of liberality, they are forced to stoop to arts and means, which -those whom they affect to contemn, would blush even to think of. Virtue -alone can hope to stand firm and unawed above the multitude. When vice -assumes this fearless character, it is either unblushing effrontery and -callous indifference to the opinion of the wise and good, or at best, -but overweening pride, which supports the culprit, and conceals from -the eyes of others, the gnawing tortures he endures—the bitter agonizing -consciousness of self-reproach. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Lord Avondale was desirous of passing the winter with his family at -Monteith, and in the spring he had promised the Duke of Altamonte to -accompany Lady Avondale to Castle Delaval. Lady Mandeville and Lady -Augusta Selwyn were invited to meet them there at that time. The wish -of pleasing Calantha, of indulging even her very weaknesses, seemed to -be the general failing of all who surrounded her:—yet what return did -she make?—each day new follies engrossed her thoughts;—her levity and -extravagance continually increased; and whilst with all the ostentation -of generosity she wasted the fortune of her husband upon the worthless -and the base,—he denied himself every amusement, secretly and kindly -to repair the ruin—the misery—the injustice her imprudence and wanton -prodigality had caused. - -During a long and melancholy journey, and after her arrival at Monteith, -Calantha, with some astonishment, considered the difference of Lord -Avondale’s views, character and even talents for society and conversation, -as compared with those of her former companions. Lord Avondale had no love -of ostentation—no effort—a perfect manliness of conduct and character, a -real, and not feigned, indifference to the opinion and applause of the -vain and the foolish; yet with all this, he was happy, cheerful, ready -to enter into every amusement or occupation which gave others pleasure. -He had not one selfish feeling. It was impossible not to be forcibly -struck with the comparison. - -Calantha, with her usual inconsistency, now made all those sensible and -judicious remarks which people always make, when they have lived a life -of folly, and suddenly return to a more tranquil course. She compared -the false gaiety which arises from incessant hurry and vanity, with that -which is produced by nature and health. She looked upon the blue sky -and the green fields; watched the first peeping snow-drop and crocus; -and entered with delight into all the little innocent pleasures of a -rural life: nor did even a slight restlessness prevail, nor any erring -thoughts steal back to revisit the gay scenes she had left. In very truth -she was more adapted, she said, to her present course of life than to -any other; and, however guilty of imprudence, she thanked God she had -not heavier sins to answer for; nor was there a thought of her heart, -she would not have wished her husband to know, unless from the fear of -either giving him pain or betraying others. - -At length, however, and by degrees, something of disquiet began to -steal in upon the serenity of her thoughts:—her mind became agitated, -and sought an object:—study, nay, labour she had preferred to this -total want of interest. While politics and military movements engaged -Lord Avondale almost wholly, and the rest of the family seemed to exist -happily enough in the usual course, she longed for she knew not what. -There was a change in her sentiments, but she could not define it. It -was not as it had been once: yet there was no cause for complaint. She -was happy, but her heart seemed not to partake of her happiness: regret -mingled at times with her enjoyments. - -Lady Mowbray spoke with some asperity of her late conduct; Lady Elizabeth -enquired laughingly if all she heard were true; for every folly, every -fault, exaggerated and misrepresented, had flown before her: she found -that all which she had considered as merely harmless, now appeared in a -new and more unpleasing light. Censures at home and flattery abroad are -a severe trial to the vain and the proud. She thought her real friends -austere; and cast one longing glance back upon the scene which had been -so lately illumined by the gaiety, the smiles, the kindness and courtesy -of her new acquaintance. - -Whilst the first and only care of Lord Avondale, every place was alike -delightful to Calantha; for in his society she enjoyed all that she -desired; but now that she saw him estranged, absent, involved in deeper -interests, she considered, with some feelings of alarm, the loneliness -of her own situation. In the midst of hundreds, she had no real -friends:—those of her childhood were estranged from her by her marriage; -and those her marriage had united her with, seemed to perceive only her -faults, nor appreciated the merits she possessed. To dress well, to talk -well, to write with ease and perspicuity, had never been her turn. Unused -to the arts and amusements of social intercourse, she had formerly felt -interest in poetry, in music, in what had ceased to be, or never had -existed; but now the same amusements, the same books, had lost their -charm: she knew more of the world, and saw and felt their emptiness and -fallacy. In the society of the generality of women and men she could -find amusement when any amusement was to be found; but, day after day, -to hear sentiments she could not think just, and to lose sight of all -for which she once had felt reverence and enthusiasm, was hard. If she -named one she loved, that one was instantly considered as worthless: -if she expressed much eagerness for the success of any project, that -eagerness was the subject of ridicule. - -Oh I am changed, she continually thought; I have repressed and conquered -every warm and eager feeling; I love and admire nothing; yet am I not -heartless and cold enough for the world in which I live. What is it -that makes me miserable? There is a fire burns within my soul; and all -those whom I see and hear are insensible. Avondale alone feels as I do; -but alas! it is no longer for me. Were I dead, what difference would it -make to any one? I am the object of momentary amusement or censure to -thousands; but, of love, to none. I am as a child, as a mistress to my -husband; but never his friend, his companion. Oh for a heart’s friend, -in whom I could confide every thought and feeling; who would share and -sympathize with my joy or sorrow; to whom I could say, “you love me—you -require my presence;” and for whom in return I would give up every other -enjoyment. Such friend was once Lord Avondale. By what means have I lost -him? - -Often when in tears she thus expressed herself. Her husband would -suddenly enter; laugh with her without penetrating her feelings; or, -deeply interested in the cares of business, seek her only as a momentary -solace and amusement. Such, however, he seldom now found her; for she -cherished a discontented spirit within her; and though too proud and -stubborn to complain, she lived but on the memory of the past. - -Calantha’s principles had received a shock, the force and effect of -which was greatly augmented by a year of vanity and folly; her health -too was impaired from late hours and an enervating life; she could not -walk or ride as formerly; and her great occupation was the indulgence of -a useless and visionary train of thinking. She imagined that which was -not, and lost sight of reality;—pictured ideal virtues, and saw not the -world as it is. Her heart beat with all the fervour of enthusiasm; but -the turn it took was erroneous. She heard the conversation of others; -took a mistaken survey of society; and withdrew herself imperceptibly -from all just and reasonable views. Ill motives were imputed to her, for -what she considered harmless imprudence; she felt the injustice of these -opinions; and, instead of endeavouring to correct those appearances which -had caused such severe animadversion, in absolute disgust she steeled -herself against all remonstrances. Every one smiles on me and seems to -love me—the world befriends me—she continually thought; yet I am censured -and misrepresented. My relations—the only enemies I have—are those who -profess to be my friends. Convinced of this, she became lonely. She had -thoughts which once she would have mentioned as they occurred, but which -she now concealed and kept solely to herself. She became dearer in her -own estimation, as she detached herself from others, and began to feel -coldly, even towards those whom she had once loved. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -It is dangerous to begin life by surrendering every feeling of the -mind and the heart to any violent passion—Calantha had loved and been -loved to such an excess, that all which followed it appeared insipid. -Vanity might fill the space for a moment, or friendship, or charity, -or benevolence; but still there was something gone which, had it never -existed, had never been missed and required. Lord Avondale was perhaps -more indulgent and more affectionate now, than at first; for a lover -ever plays the tyrant; but even this indulgence was different; and that -look of adoration—that blind devotion—that ardent, constant solitude, -when, without a single profession, one may feel certain of being the -first object in life to the person thus attached,—all this was past. - -Such love is not depravity. To have felt it, and to feel it no more, is -like being deprived of the light of the sun, and seeing the same scenes, -which we once viewed brilliant beneath its beams, dark, clouded and -cheerless.—Calantha had given up her heart too entirely to its power, -ever more to endure existence without it. Her home was a desert; her -thoughts were heavy and dull; her spirits and her health were gone; and -even the desire of pleasing, so natural to the vain, had ceased. Whom -was she to wish to please, since Avondale was indifferent? or what to -her was the same, absent and preoccupied. - -Such depression continued during the gloomy wintry months; but with the -first warm breeze of spring, they left her; and in the month of May, -she prepared to join the splendid party which was expected at Castle -Delaval—as gay in heart herself as if she had never moralized upon the -perishableness of all human happiness. - -Upon a cool and somewhat dreary morning in the month of May, Calantha -left Monteith, and, sleeping one night at Allenwater, hastened to Castle -Delaval, where blazing hearths and joyous countenances, gave her a -cheering welcome. Lady Mandeville and Lady Augusta had, according to -promise, arrived there a week before, to the utter consternation of Mrs. -Seymour. Calantha perceived in one moment, that she was not extremely -well with her or with her cousins upon this account. Indeed the former -scarcely offered her her hand, such a long detail of petty offences had -been registered against her, since they had last parted. It was also -justly imputed to Calantha that Lady Mandeville had been invited to the -Castle. A stately dignity was therefore assumed by Sophia and Mrs. Seymour -on this occasion: they scarce permitted themselves to smile during the -whole time Lady Mandeville remained, for fear, as Calantha concluded, -that Satan, taking advantage of a moment of levity, should lead them -into further evil. The being compelled to live in company with one of -her character, was more than enough. - -“I am enraptured at your arrival,” said Lady Augusta, flying towards -Calantha, the moment she perceived her. “You are come at the happiest -time: you will be diverted here in no ordinary manner: the days of -romance, are once again displayed to our wondering view.” “Yes,” said -Lady Trelawney, “not a day passes without an adventure.” Before Calantha -enquired into the meaning of this, she advanced to Lady Mandeville, who, -languidly reclining upon a couch, smiled sweetly on seeing her. Secure -of the impression she had made, she waited to be sought, and throwing -her arm around her, gave her kisses so soft and so tender, that she -could not immediately extricate herself from her embrace. - -Lady Augusta, eager to talk, exclaimed—“Did you meet any of the patrole?” -“I was reading the address to the united Irishmen,” said Calantha, -who could hear and think of nothing else. “Are you aware who is the -author?” “No; but it is so eloquent, so animated, I was quite alarmed -when I thought how it must affect the people.” “You shock me, Calantha,” -said Mrs. Seymour. “The absurd rhapsody you mean, is neither eloquent -nor animating: it is a despicable attempt to subvert the government, -a libel upon the English, and a poor piece of flattery to delude the -infatuated malcontents in Ireland.” Lady Augusta winked at Calantha, as -if informing her that she touched upon a sore subject. “The author,” said -Lady Trelawney, who affected to be an enthusiast, “is Lord Glenarvon.” - -“I wish Frances,” said Mrs. Seymour, “you would call people by their -right names. The young man you call Lord Glenarvon, has no claim to that -title; his grandfather was a traitor; his father was a poor miserable -exile, who was obliged to enter the Navy by way of gaining a livelihood; -his mother was a woman of very doubtful character (as she said this she -looked towards Lady Mandeville); and this young man, educated nobody knows -how, having passed his time in a foreign country, nobody knows where, -from whence he was driven it seems by his crimes, is now unfortunately -arrived here to pervert and mislead others, to disseminate his wicked -doctrines amongst an innocent but weak people, and to spread the flames -of rebellion, already kindled in other parts of the Island. Oh, he is a -dishonour to his sex; and it makes me mad to see how you all run after -him, and forget both dignity and modesty, to catch a glimpse of him.” - -“What sort of looking man is he, dear aunt?” said Calantha. -“Frightful—mean,” said Mrs. Seymour. “His stature is small,” said Lady -Mandeville; “but his eye is keen and his voice is sweet and tunable. -Lady Avondale believe me, he is possessed of that persuasive language, -which never fails to gain upon its hearers. Take heed to your heart: -remember my words,—beware of the young Glenarvon.” Gondimar, after the -first salutation upon entering the room, joined in the conversation; but -he spoke with bitterness of the young Lord; and upon Lady Trelawney’s -attempting to say a few words in his favour, “Hear Sir Everard on this -subject,” said the Count—“only hear what he thinks of him.” “I fear,” -said Sophia, “that all these animadversions will prevent our going -to-morrow, as we proposed, to see the Priory.” “Nothing shall prevent -me,” replied Lady Augusta. “I only beg,” said Mrs. Seymour “that I may -not be of the party, as the tales of horror I have heard concerning the -inhabitants of St. Alvin Priory, from old Lord de Ruthven, at Belfont -Abbey, prevent my having the smallest wish or curiosity to enter its -gates.” - -Count Gondimar, now coming towards Calantha, enquired after Zerbellini. -At the request of every one present, he was sent for. Calantha saw a -visible change in Lady Margaret’s countenance, as he entered the room. -“He is the living images”—she murmured, in a low hollow tone—“Of whom?” -said Calantha eagerly.—She seemed agitated and retired. Gondimar in the -evening, took Calantha apart, and said these extraordinary words to her, -“Zerbellini is Lady Margaret and Lord Dartford’s son: treat him according -to his birth; but remember, she would see him a slave sooner than betray -herself: she abhors, yet loves him. Mark her; but never disclose the -secret with which I entrust you.” Astonished, confounded, Calantha now -looked upon the boy with different eyes. Immediately his resemblance to -the family of Delaval struck her—his likeness to herself—his manner so -superior to that of a child in his situation. The long concealed truth, -at once flashed upon her. A thousand times she was tempted to speak upon -the subject. She had not promised to conceal it from Lord Avondale: she -was in the habit of telling him every thing: however she was now for -the first time silent, and there is no more fatal symptom than when an -open communicative disposition grows reserved. - - -END OF VOL. I. - - -LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 1 (OF -3) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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