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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00c11fc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68773 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68773) diff --git a/old/68773-0.txt b/old/68773-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 67a277a..0000000 --- a/old/68773-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5986 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Glenarvon, Volume 2 (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 2 (of 3) - -Author: Caroline Lamb - -Release Date: August 16, 2022 [eBook #68773] - -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 2 (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: - affright - agressors - Annabel, Anabel - barouche, barouch - concientious - contemn - controul - Costoly, Costolly, Costally - ecstasy, ecstacy - encrease, increase - extrame - faltered, faultered - Glenaa, Glanaa - ideotsy - impassioned, empassioned - insense - intreated, entreated - irresistably - mediately - Mowbray, Mowbrey - pallaver - rouze, rouse - secresy - stedfast - Trelawney, Trelawny - villify - vinyards - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - - - - GLENARVON. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - LONDON: - PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, - 1816. - - London: Printed by Schulze and Dean, - 13, Poland Street. - - - - - Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme - Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -In the morning Calantha beheld crowds of discontented catholics who -thronged the outer courts waiting to see her father. Petitions for redress -were thrown in at the windows; and whilst they were at breakfast, Sir -Everard entering, without even waiting to see who was present, asked -eagerly if the Duke was at home: he, at the same moment gave a huge paper -closely written, into the hands of one of the servants, desiring it to -be instantly delivered to the Duke; “and tell him, sir,” vociferated -the doctor, “it is my case written out clear, as he commanded—the one I -had the honour to present to him t’other day, when he had not leisure to -look upon it:” then turning round, and seeing Calantha, “By my soul,” he -exclaimed, “if here ain’t my own dear Lady Calantha; and God be praised -Madam, you are come amongst us; for the devil and all is broke loose -since you’ve been away. Let’s look at you: well, and you are as tall and -handsome as ever; but I—Oh! Lady Calantha Delaval, begging your pardon, -what a miserable wretch am I become. Lord help me, and deliver me. Lord -help us all, in unmerited affliction.” - -Calantha had not heard of Sir Everard’s misfortunes; and was really afraid -to ask him what had occurred. He held her hand, and wept so audibly, -that she already saw some of those present turning away, for fear they -should not be able to conceal their laughter: his strange gestures were -indeed a hard trial. “Be pacified, calm yourself my good Doctor,” said -Mrs. Seymour, giving him a chair: “Heaven forfend,” said Sir Everard: -“Nature, Madam, will have a vent. I am the most miserable man alive: I -am undone, you well know; but Lord! this dear child knows little if any -thing about it. Oh! I am a mere nothing now in the universe.” Gondimar, -with a smile, assured Sir Everard that could never be the case, whilst -he retained, unimpaired, that full rotundity of form. “Sir, are you -here?” cried the Doctor, fiercely: “but it is of small importance. I -am no longer the soft phlegmatic being you left me. I am a wild beast, -Sir—a dangerous animal.—Away with your scoffs.—I will fight, Sir—murder, -Sir—aye, and smile whilst I murder.” - -There was something in these words which turned Lady Margaret’s cheeks -to a deadly pale; but the Doctor, who had sought for forcible expressions -alone, without the least heeding the application, continued to storm and -to rage. “I’m a man,” he cried, “accustomed to sufferings and to insult. -Would you credit it, dear Lady Calantha: can you comprehend it?—that -lawless gang—those licentious democrats—those rebellious libertines, -have imposed on the inordinate folly of my wife and daughters, who, -struck mad, like Agave in the orgies of Bacchus, are running wild about -the country, their hair dishevelled, their heads ornamented with green -cockades, and Lady St. Clare, to the shame of her sex and me, the property -of a recruiting serjeant, employed by one of that nest of serpents at -the abbey, to delude others, and all, I believe, occasioned by that arch -fiend, Glenarvon.” - -“Oh!” cried Gerald MacAllain, who was in attendance at the breakfast -table, “saving your honour’s pardon, the young Lord of Glenarvon has -been the cause of my two brave boys being saved from the gallows. I will -rather lose my life, than stand to hear him called an arch fiend.” “He -is one, old Gerald, whether you or I call him so or no. Witness how, -the other night, he set the rabble with their torches to burning Mr. -O’Flarney’s barns, and stealing his sheep and oxen and all his goods.” -“Och it’s my belief the rector of Belfont, when he comes, will speak a -word for him thoft,” returned Gerald MacAllain; “for, save the presence of -the Duke, who is not here to hear me, he has been our guard and defence -all the while his grace’s honour has been out of the kingdom.” “Curses -light upon him and his gang,” cried Sir Everard, furiously. “Are not -Miss Laura and Miss Jessica after him at this very time, and my pretty -niece, my young, my dear Elinor, and Lady St. Clare, more crazy than -all, is not she following him about as if he were some god?” - -“The whole country are after him,” cried Gerald MacAllain, -enthusiastically: “it’s a rage, a fashion.” “It’s a phrenzy,” returned -the Doctor,—“a pestilence which has fallen on the land, and all, it’s my -belief, because the stripling has not one christian principle, or habit -in him: he’s a heathen.” “If it is the young Glenarvon,” said Gondimar, -approaching the irritated Doctor, “he is my friend.” “Don’t bring any -of your knock me down arguments to me, Sir. His being your friend, only -gives a blacker shade to his character, in my opinion.” “Sir, I hate -personal attacks.” “A blow that hits, Count, and a cap that fits, are -sure to make a sufferer look foolish, excessively foolish: not but what -you did so before. I never believed in baseness and malignity till I -knew the Count Gondimar.” “Nor I in arrogance and stupidity, till I -knew Sir Everard.” “Count, you are the object of my astonishment.” “And -you, Sir, of my derision.” “Italian, I despise you,” “I should only -feel mortified, if Sir Everard did otherwise.” “The contempt, Sir, of -the meanest, cannot be a matter of triumph.” “It is a mark of wisdom, -to be proud of the scorn of fools.” “Passion makes me mad.” “Sir, you -were that before.” “I shall forget myself.” “I wish you would permit me -to do so.” - -“A truce to these quarrels, good doctor,” said the Duke, who had entered -the room during the latter part of the discussion. “I have been reading -some papers of a very serious nature; and I am sorry to say it appears -from them that Sir Everard has very great cause for his present irritation -of mind: he is an aggrieved man. This Lord Glenarvon or whatever the young -gentleman styles himself, has acted in a manner not only unjustifiable, -but such as I am afraid will ultimately lead to his entire ruin. Count -Gondimar, I have often heard you speak of this unfortunate young man, -with more than common interest. Could not you make use of your friendship -and intimacy with him, to warn him of the danger of his present conduct, -and lead him from the society of his worthless associates. He seems to -be acting under the influence of a mad infatuation.” Gondimar assured -the Duke, that he had no sort of influence with the young Lord. “Read -these papers, at your leisure,” said the Duke: “they are statements, -you will find, of a number of outrages committed by himself and his -followers, on people highly respectable and utterly defenceless. For the -common follies of youth, there is much excuse; but nothing can palliate -repeated acts of licentious wickedness and unprovoked cruelty. I am -inclined to believe these accounts are much exaggerated; but the list -of grievances is large; and the petitioners for redress are many of them -my most worthy and long-tried servants, at the head of whom O’Flarney’s -name is to be found.” - -“No, my Lord,—mine is at the head of the list,” cried the doctor; “and in -every other part of it, no injuries can be equal to mine. What are barns, -pigs, firearms, compared to a father’s wrongs—a husband’s injuries. Ah, -consider my case first. Restore Miss St. Clare, and I’ll be pacified. -Why do I raise laughter by my cry? It is my niece, my favourite child, -who has been taken from me.” “Pray explain to me seriously, Sir,” said -Lady Augusta, approaching the doctor, with much appearance of interest, -“how came your family to fall into the unfortunate situation to which you -allude?” “How came they,” said the Count? “can you ask, when you see Sir -Everard at the head of it?” “Madam,” said the Doctor with equal solemnity, -“this momentous crisis has been approaching some time. St. Clara, as we -called her, my most lovely and interesting Elinor’s affections have long -been seduced. We all knew, lamented and concealed the circumstance. The -old lady’s conduct, however, was quite an unexpected blow. But since -they took to their nocturnal rambles to St. Mary’s, St. Alvin’s, and -all the saints around, their sanctity has not been much mended that I -see, and their wits are fairly overset. As to my girls, I really feel -for them: my own disgrace I can easily support: but oh my Elinor!” - -“What nocturnal meetings have taken place at St. Mary’s and St. Alvin’s?” -said Lady Trelawney, with a face of eager curiosity. “The discontented -flock together in shoals,” said the Doctor, indignantly, “till by their -machinations, they will overturn the State. At Belfont, opposite my -very window,—aye, even in that great square house which Mr. Ochallavan -built, on purpose to obstruct Lady St. Clare’s view, have they not set -up a library? The Lord help me. And was it not there I first saw that -accursed pamphlet Lord Glenarvon wrote; which rhapsody did not I myself -immediately answer? Lady Calantha, strange things have occurred since -your departure. Captain Kennedy, commander of the district, can’t keep -his men. Cattle walk out of the paddocks of themselves: women, children, -pigs, wander after Glenarvon: and Miss Elinor, forgetful of her old -father, my dear mad brother, her aunt, her religion, and all else, to -the scandal of every one in their senses, heads the rabble. They have -meetings under ground, and over ground; out at sea, and in the caverns: -no one can stop the infection; the poison in the fountain of life; and -our very lives and estates are no longer in safety. You know not, you -cannot know, what work we have had since you last left us.” Sir Everard -paused, and then taking a couple of pamphlets from his pocket, entreated -Calantha to peruse them. “Cast your eye over these,” he said: “I wrote -them in haste; they are mere sketches of my sentiments; but I am going to -publish. Oh! when you see what I am now going to publish. It is intituled -a refutation of all that has or may be said by the disaffected, in or -out of the kingdom.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The party at the castle had postponed their visit to St. Alvin Priory -till the feast of St. Kathereen and St. Mary, which in that neighbourhood -was always celebrated with much observance. A fair was held upon the -downs, in honour of these two martyrs. The rocks near which the ruins -of the convent stood, were called the Black Sisters, and it was there, -and in the Wizzard’s Glen, which stretched from the top to the foot of -the mountain, that the meetings of the discontented had been held. The -day proved fair; and at an early hour the carriages and horses were in -attendance. Mrs. Seymour and many others declined being of the party; -but Lady Margaret took Gondimar’s arm with a smile of good humour, which -she could at times put on. Buchanan drove Calantha in his barouch. Sir -Everard rode by Calantha’s side on a lowly white palfrey, as if to protect -her. Lady Mandeville was with her; and Lady Trelawney took Sophia and -Lady Augusta Selwyn in her carriage. The rest of the gentlemen were some -on horseback and some in curricles. - -The whole country smiled around. There were ringers, and pipers, and -hurlers upon the down. The cliff, towards the sea, was covered with -booths and tents. Flocks, herds and horses had been brought from far -for sale, ornamented with ribbands; green being the favourite colour. -Scarcely ever was witnessed a scene more gay. This, and the vessels -laden with fish, crowding into the harbour below, and the high mountains -beyond, struck even the Italian, whose eyes had been accustomed to all -that nature can produce of picturesque and majestic. The beauty of the -girls, with their long blue mantles thrown aside from their shoulders, -their dark hair fastened behind with a knot of ribband, was the subject -of discussion. Comparisons of the difference of form between one nation -and another arose. All descended from their carriages and horses. Lady -Mandeville repeated poetry; Gondimar became sentimental; Buchanan looked -at the horses, enquired their prices, and soon joined the hurlers, in -whose combat he grew so much interested, that no one could draw him from -thence until the moment when they left the fair, where they had remained -till they were all much fatigued. - -“What are you laughing at so immensely?” cried Lady Augusta Selwyn, -approaching Lord Trelawney, who was nearly enclosed in a circle of some -hundreds. The moment Lady Augusta approached, with a courtesy seldom seen -but in Ireland, the crowd made way for her. “I am listening,” said he, “to -a preacher—a most capital preacher, whom they call Cowdel O’Kelly. Only -observe him: what a rogue it is, with that hypocrite mildness of manner, -that straight black hair, that presbyterian stiffness and simplicity.” -“But what is he saying?” enquired Lady Augusta. The preacher, standing -upon a cart, was delivering an exhortation in a very emphatic manner, to -a vast concourse of attentive hearers. The presence of the party from the -Castle had no effect upon him: he was inveighing against the insolence -of his superiors in rank, and pleading in favour of the rights of man. - -When he had concluded his discourse, the crowd dispersed, some laughing -at him, and some much edified by his discourse. O’Kelly looked after -them:—“That is the way of the world,” he said: “it gets all it can -from a man, and then it leaves him; but all that is, is for the best; -therefore, amen, your honours; so be it.” Lord Trelawney laughed to an -excess. “Your name,” said he, “I take it, it is Cowdel O’Kelly.” “If you -take it to be my name, your honour can’t be any ways wrong in calling -me by it; but I call myself citizen Wailman.” “And why the devil, my -honest friend, do you call yourself so?” “To please myself, and trick -my master.” “And pray who is your master?” “When I know that, I’ll let -you know.” “What! not know your master?” “Why what master knows his -servant? There’s nothing extraordinary in that, my Lord.” “But pray, -my good citizen Wailman, where do you live, and where does your master -live?”—“I live where I can, your honour; and as to my master, every one -knows he lives under ground, in the family vault.” - -“Is he dead then, or what can he be doing under ground?” said Lady -Trelawney. “Looking for friends, Miss, I believe; for he has none, that -I see, above board.” “I am sure this is a rebel in disguise,” whispered -Lady Trelawney. Her Lord laughed. - -A beautiful little boy now pushing his way through the crowd, plainly -pronounced the words, “O’Kelly come home; I am very tired.” The man, -hastily descending from the cart, called him his young prince—his -treasure; and lifted him up in his arms. “He is about the same age as -Henry Mowbray,” said Calantha, “and very like him. What is your name, -my pretty child?” “Clare of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should by -rights be Lord Clare—should it not, O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled -and put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s mouth, who kissed them, and -making a slight bow, would have retired. “What, are you going? will you -not stay a moment?” “I fear I intrude too much on your honour’s time.” -“Not in the least—not in the least, good Mister Wailman; pray stay a -little longer.” “Why, fair and honest, if I don’t intrude too much on -your time, my lord, you do on mine; and so your servant.” - -“I really believe he belongs to the abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who -had re-entered her barouche, and was driving with the rest of the party, -towards St. Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along by the cliff, in the -same direction we are going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady Augusta; -“but to be sure no more like Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in the -seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, pray look,” interrupted Frances: -“I assure you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s wife, and Lauriana and -Jessica are with her. I am certain of it,” she continued, throwing -herself nearly out of the carriage to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney was -extremely diverted. “And there is the recruiting serjeant: only observe -the manner in which they are habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest -in the most flaunting attire, singing in chorus the song of liberty, -covered with green ribbands, were walking in company with a vast number -of young men, most of them intoxicated, and all talking and laughing -loudly. Calantha begged Buchanan to stop the carriage, that she also -might see them pass; which they did, marching to the sound of the drum -and fife: but her heart sickened when she saw the beautiful recluse of -Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came near: she raised her full black eye, -and gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha. - -It was the same face she had seen a few years back at the convent: but -alas, how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson of her cheek, the deep dark -brown of the wild ringlets which waved above her brow, the bold masculine -manners and dress she had assumed, contrasting with the slender beauty -of her upright form. She was drest in uniform, and walked by the side -of a young man, whose pale, thoughtful countenance struck every one. -Elinor appeared desperate and utterly hardened: her presence inspired -Calantha with a mixed feeling of horror and commiseration, which Lady -St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and clumsy -personages turned into disgust. - -“Oh did you behold her?—did you see my poor deluded Elinor?” cried Sir -Everard, riding up to Calantha, as she still gazed from the open carriage -upon the procession: “did you see my unfortunate girls?” “I did, indeed,” -said Lady Avondale, the tears springing into her eyes: “I saw them and -stopped; for it occurred to me, that, perhaps, I might speak to them—might -yet save them.” “And would you have condescended so much? Oh! this is -more than I dared ask or hope.” Saying which, the Doctor wept, as was -his custom, and Buchanan laughed. “You are so good,” continued he: “you -were in tears when you saw your former playmates disgracing themselves, -and their sex, but in the rest of the carriages I heard nothing but -jesting, and loud laughter. And oh! would you credit it, can you believe -it, Lady St. Clare had the audacity to drop me a courtesy as she passed.” - -“Was the tall young man, who was walking by the side of Elinor, Cyrel -Linden?” “It was the same,” cried the Doctor—“gone mad like the rest, -though they tell me it is all for the love of Miss Alice; and that since -her loss, he is grown desperate, and cares not what becomes of him. -They’ll be hanged, however; that is one consolation—Lady St. Clare, -as well as the rest. Indeed,” cried he, drawing closer, “I am credibly -informed that the officers of justice have an eye upon them, and wait -only to obtain further evidence of their treasonable practices, to take -them up.” During this discourse, the carriage drove slowly up the hill; -but soon proceeding at a brisker pace, the doctor was obliged to draw -in his steed and retire. The party now entered the park. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Belfont Abbey and St. Alvin’s ruined Priory appeared in view. The ivy -climbed around the turrets; and the grass grew upon the paved courts, -where desolation and long neglect prevailed. At a distance from the -convent, a ruin, a lonely pile stood upon the cliff in solitary grandeur. -Not a tree, nor any appearance of cultivation was seen around: barren -moors, the distant mountains, and the vast ocean, every where filled -the eye. The servants rang at the bell of the outer gate: it resounded -through the vaulted passages with a long repeated echo.—A boy immediately -answered the summons: with a look of stupid astonishment, he waited in -expectation of their commands. - -Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they might see the Priory. “I suppose -so,” was his reply. And without further preamble, they alighted. “It -must be rather melancholy to live here during the winter months,” said -Calantha to the boy, as she passed him. “And summer too,” he answered. -“We are told,” said Frances, “that this Priory is haunted by ghosts: -have you ever seen any?” He shook his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’ -please your honour,” he said; “but I never meddle with them, so they -never comes after me as I see.” “Are you going to shew us the house?” -cried Sir Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do you keep us waiting in -this dark passage? go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding towards -an inner apartment, knocked at the door, calling to the housekeeper, and -telling her that there was company below who wished to take the round -of the castle. The old dame courtesying low in a mysterious manner led -the way: the boy immediately retreated. - -Calantha was much tired; her spirits had undergone a severe shock; and -the sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was still called, made an -impression upon her she scarcely could account for. The gaiety of the -dresses, the fineness of the evening, the chorus of voices laughing and -singing as they marched along, indifferent apparently to their future -fate—perhaps hardened and insensible to it—all made an impression which -it is impossible the description of the scene can give; but long it -dwelt in her remembrance. Unused to check herself in any feeling, she -insisted upon remaining in front of the Castle, whilst the rest of the -party explored its secret mysteries and recesses. “I am sure you are -frightened,” said Lord Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have more cause -than we: it looks very gloomy without, as well as within.” - -They went, and she remained upon the cliff, watching the calm sea, and -the boats at a distance, as they passed and repassed from the fair. -“And can a few short years thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, “was -St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? can one moment of error thus have -changed her? Oh it is not possible. Long before the opportunity for evil -presented itself, her uncontrouled passions must have misled her, and -her imagination, wild and lawless, must have depraved her heart. Alice -was innocent: he who first seduced her from peace, deceived her; but -St. Clara was not of this character. I understand—I think I understand -the feelings which impelled her to evil. Her image haunts me. I tremble -with apprehension. Something within seems to warn me, and to say that, -if I wander from virtue like her, nothing will check my course—all -the barriers, that others fear to overstep, are nothing before me. -God preserve me from sin! the sight of St. Clara fills me with alarm. -Avondale, where art thou? save me. My course is but just begun: who -knows whither the path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned will, has -been hitherto, my only law.” - -Upon the air at that moment she heard the soft notes of a flute. She -listened attentively:—it ceased. There are times when the spirit is -troubled—when the mind, after the tumult of dissipated and active life, -requires rest and seeks to be alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us so -fast, that we hardly know how to bear them; conscience reflects upon -every former action; and the heart within trembles, as if in dread of -approaching evil. The scene around was calculated to inspire every serious -reflection. The awful majesty of the ruined building, ill accorded with -the loud laugh and the jests of the merry party now entering its walls. -Once those walls had been, perhaps inhabited by beings thoughtless and -gay. Where were they now? had they memory of the past? knowledge of the -present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes? -how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of -any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible, -be worth either solicitude or anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” said -Calantha to herself. “Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves; -let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the -dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations, -are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only -real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love.” - -So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I -was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that -is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... Whilst yet indulging these -fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western turret, and watching the -shadows as they varied on the walls, she again heard the soft notes of -music. It seemed like the strains of other times, awakening in the heart -remembrances of some former state long passed and changed. Hope, love -and fond regret, answered alternately to the call. It was in the season -of the year when the flowers bloomed: it was on a spot immortalized in -ancient story, for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha turned her -eyes upwards and beheld the blue vault of heaven without a cloud. The -sea was of that glossy transparency—that shining brightness, the air of -that serene calm that, had it been during the wintry months, some might -have thought the halcyon was watching upon her nest, and breathing her -soft and melancholy minstrelsy through the air. - -Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. She felt as if in a dream, and, -hastily advancing to the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, she -there beheld a youth, for he had not the form or the look of manhood, -leaning against the trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon a flute, -or breathing, as if from a suffering heart, the sweet melody of his -untaught song. He started not when she approached:—he neither saw nor -heard her—so light was her airy step, so fixed were his eyes and thoughts. -She gazed for one moment upon his countenance—she marked it. It was one -of those faces which, having once beheld, we never afterwards forget. It -seemed as if the soul of passion had been stamped and printed upon every -feature. The eye beamed into life as it threw up its dark ardent gaze, -with a look nearly of inspiration, while the proud curl of the upper lip -expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet, even mixed with these -fierce characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy and dejection shaded -and softened every harsher expression. Such a countenance spoke to the -heart, and filled it with one vague yet powerful interest—so strong, so -undefinable, that it could not easily be overcome. - -Calantha felt the power, not then alone, but evermore. She felt the -empire, the charm, the peculiar charm, those features—that being must -have for her. She could have knelt and prayed to heaven to realize the -dreams, to bless the fallen angel in whose presence she at that moment -stood, to give peace to that soul, upon which was plainly stamped the -heavenly image of sensibility and genius. The air he had played was wild -and plaintive: he changed it to one more harsh. She now distinctly heard -the words he sung: - - This heart has never stoop’d its pride - To slavish love, or woman’s wile; - But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d - Her craftiest art and brightest smile. - - This mind has trac’d its own career, - Nor follow’d blind, where others trod; - Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear, - E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God. - - Then hope not now to touch with love, - Or in its chains a heart to draw, - All earthly spells have fail’d to move; - And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe: - - A heart, that like some mountain vast, - And cold with never-melting snow, - Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast - A look away on aught below. - -An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself, -had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different -feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till -she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been -left by her companions. - -While yet dwelling in thought upon the singular being she had one moment -beheld—whilst asking herself what meant this new, this strange emotion, -she found another personage by her side, and recognized, through a new -disguise, her morning’s acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, otherwise -called Cowdel O’Kelly. This rencontre gave an immediate turn to her -thoughts. She enquired of him if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey? -“No, madam,” he answered, “but of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him to -inform her, whether any one resided there who sung in the manner she -then described. “Sure, then, I sing myself in that manner,” said the -man, “if that’s all; and beside me, there be some who howl and wail, the -like you never heard. Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it must -have moved your heart to tears.” - -“Explain yourself,” said Calantha eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is -the same I have seen and heard. Tell me what sorrows have befallen -him?” “Sorrows! why enough too, to plague any man. Has he not got the -distemper?” “The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did he not catch it sleeping -in our dog-kennel, as he stood petrified there one night, kilt by the -cold? When my Lord found him, he had not a house to his head then, it’s -my belief; but now indeed he’s got one, he’s no wiser, having, as I -think, no head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise you how he howls -and barks, whenever the moon shines bright. But here be those who fell -on me at the fair. In truth I believe they be searching for the like of -you.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The party from the castle now joined Calantha. They were in evident -discomfiture. Their adventures had been rather less romantic than Lady -Avondale’s, and consequently had not given them such refined pleasure; for -while she was attending to a strain of such enchanting sweetness, they -had been forcibly detained in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly -listening to very different music. - -The housekeeper having led them through the galleries, the ladies, -escorted by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney and Sir Everard, turned to -examine some of the portraits, fretted cornices and high casements, till -the dame who led the way, calling to them, shewed them a large dreary -apartment hung with tapestry, and requested them to observe the view -from the window. “It is here,” she said, “in this chamber, that John de -Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of his enemy and died.” A loud -groan, at that moment, proceeded from an inner chamber. “That must be the -ghost,” said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. The dame, terrified at -Lady Trelawney’s terror, returned the shriek by a piercing yell, rushed -from the room, closing the heavy door in haste, which fastened with a -spring lock, and left the company not a little disconcerted. - -“We are a good number, however,” cried Frances, taking fast hold of her -Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. “We certainly can match the ghost in -point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant to be confined here till -the old woman recovers her senses.” Groans most piteous and terrible -interrupted this remark—groans uttered as if in the agony of a soul ill -at rest. Sophia grasped Sir Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard looked -at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret disdainfully returned the glance. “I -fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly have this affair examined. -I shall speak to my brother the moment I return: there is possibly some -evil concealed which requires investigation.” “Hark! I hear a step,” said -Frances. “If I were not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord Trelawney, -“faith, I would climb up to that small grated window.” - -“I fear no ghosts,” replied Count Gondimar, smiling. “The sun has not -set, therefore I defy them thus.—Only take care and hold the stool upon -the table, that I may not break my neck.” “What do you see?” “A large -room lighted by two candles:—would it were but a lamp.” “Truly this -is a fair beginning.—What is the matter now?—why what the devil is the -matter?—If you come down so precipitately I cannot support you. Help! -the Count is literally fainting.” It was true. “A sudden dizziness—a -palpitation”—He only uttered these words and fell; a ghastly paleness -overspread his face; the cold damps stood upon his forehead. - -“This is the most unfortunate confirmation of the effects of terror upon -an evil conscience,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “that ever I beheld. I’ll -be bound there is not an Irish or English man here, that would have been -so frightened.” “It’s a dizziness, a mere fainting fit,” said Gondimar, -“Let me feel his pulse,” cried Sir Everard. “Well, doctor?” “Well, sir, -he has no pulse left:—give him air.” “I am better now,” said Gondimar, -with a smile, as he revived. “Was I ill enough for this?”—Sir Everard -called in. Lord Trelawney’s curiosity engaged him to climb to the grated -window; but the candles had been extinguished, probably, for all beyond -the window was utter darkness. - -Whilst some were assisting the Count, the rest had been vainly -endeavouring to open the door. A key was now heard on the outside; and -the solemn boy entering, said to Lady Margaret, “I am come to tell your -honour, that our dame being taken with the qualms and stericks, is no -ways able of shewing you any further into the Priory.” “I trust, however, -that you will immediately shew us out of it, Sir,” said Gondimar. “It -not being her fault, but her extrame weakness,” continued the boy: “she -desires me to hope your honours will excuse her.” “We will certainly -excuse her; but,” added Lady Margaret, “I must insist upon knowing from -her, or from some of you, the cause of the groans we heard, and what all -those absurd stories of ghosts can arise from. I shall send an order for -the house to undergo an immediate examination, so you had better tell -all you know.” - -“Then, indeed, there be no mischief in them groans,” said the boy, who -appeared indifferent whether the house were examined or not. “It’s only -that gentleman as howls so, who makes them queer noises. I thought ye’d -heard something stranger than that. There be more singular noises than -he makes, many’s the time.” “Sirrah, inform me who inhabits this d——d -Priory?” said Count Gondimar. “What, you’re recovered from your qualms -and stericks, I perceive, though the old dame is so ill with them?” -“No jesting, Sir Everard. I must sift this affair to the bottom. Come, -Sir, answer straightly, who inhabits this Priory?” “Sure, Sir, indeed -none as can get a bed in the Abbey,” “You evade, young one: you evade -my enquiry: to the point; be plain.” “That he can’t help being,” said -Lord Trelawney. “Proceed, Sir, lead us as fast as possible out of these -cold damp galleries; but talk as you go.” “Like the cuckoo.” “Lord -Trelawney, your jests are mighty pleasant; but I have peculiar reasons -for my enquiries.” “And I for my jokes.” “Come, Sirrah, proceed: I shall -say no more at present.” “Do you like being here?” said Lady Trelawney, -taking up the question. “Well enough,” returned the stupid boy. “I hear,” -continued Frances, “there are some who play upon the harp in the night, -and sing so, that the country people round, say they are spell-bound.” -“Oh musha! there be strange things heard in these here old houses: one -must not always believe all one hears.” - -Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, were engaged in deep discourse. “I can -hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most true—most terribly true,” said -Gondimar. “I will question the boy myself,” she cried; “he is subtle -with all that appearance of clownish simplicity; but we shall gather -something from him. Now, Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, and do -you lead these gentlemen and ladies into the fresh air. Lady Augusta -says she longs to behold living objects and day-light. I shall soon -overtake you. Come here. I think, from what I have gathered, that St. -Alvin Priory has not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon family since -the year ****: in that case, who has had charge of it?” “None but Mr. -Mackenzie and Dame since the old Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young -Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality in these parts till now; but -about three years and better, the young Lord sent some of his friends -here, he being in Italy; and as they only asked for the ould ruin, and -did not wish to meddle with the castle, they have done their will there. -The steward lets them bide.” - -“Have they been here above three years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve -not, your honour; for sometimes they’ve all been here, and sometimes -there’s not a soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, there’s been no -peace for them.” “Can you tell me any of their names?” “All, I believe; -for isn’t there one calls himself Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be -the master, the real Lord; but he cares not to have it thought: only -he’s such a manner with him, one can’t but think it. Then there’s Mister -O’Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there’s -another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there’s a gentleman -cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is -Macpherson; then there’s the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O’Grady; -and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and -revel here.” “And what right have they to be here?” “Why to be sure, -then, they’ve not any right at all; that’s what we are all talking of; -except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked -life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s the reason, for -some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s -known as to what’s gone with him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! the -young master’s here, and the only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a -christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” “Ah! sure your honour knows -him.” - -Having reached the front porch, by the time the boy had gone through -his examination, Lady Margaret perceiving O’Kelly, sent for him, and -tried, vainly, to make him answer her enquiries more satisfactorily; -which not being able to accomplish, she set forth to return home, in an -extreme ill humour. Lord Trelawney rallied her about the ghost. Casting -an angry glance at him, she refused positively to return home in either -of the carriages; saying, she was resolved to walk back across the cliff, -the short way. Some of the gentlemen proposed escorting her; but she -haughtily refused them, and desired permission to be a few moments left -to herself. They, therefore, re-entered their carriages, and returned -without any further event. - -Calantha was tired and grave during the drive home; and, what may perhaps -appear strange, she named not her adventure. “It is himself—it must -be.” “Who?” said Lady Mandeville. Confused at having betrayed her own -thoughts,—“Young Linden,” she cried, looking out of the carriage; and -then feigned sleep, that she might think over again and again on that -countenance, that voice, that being, she had one moment seen. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Lady Margaret walking hastily off, had arrived near the Convent of St. -Mary, as the last ray of the setting sun blazed in the west, and threw its -golden light over the horizon. Close to the convent, is built the chapel -where the young Marquis and all the family of Altamonte are interred. -It stands upon a high barren cliff, separated by a branch of the sea -from the village of Belfont, to which any one may pass by means of the -ferry below. To the north of the chapel, as far as the eye can trace, -barren heaths and moors, and the distant view of Belfont and St. Alvin -Priory, present a cheerless aspect; while the other side displays the -rich valley of Delaval, its groves, gardens and lake, with the adjacent -wood. - -At this spot Lady Margaret arrived, as has been said, at sun-set. She -thought she had been alone; but she heard a step closely following her: -she turned round, and, to her extreme surprise, beheld a man pursuing her, -and, just at that moment, on the point of attaining her. His black brows -and eyes were contrasted with his grizzly hair; his laugh was hollow; -his dress wild and tawdry. If she stopped for a moment to take breath, -he stopped at the same time; if she advanced rapidly, he followed. She -heard his steps behind, till passing near the convent he paused, rending -the air with his groans, and his clenched fist repeatedly striking his -forehead, with all the appearance of maniac fury, whilst with his voice -he imitated the howling of the wind. - -Terrified, fatigued and oppressed, Lady Margaret fled into the thickest -part of the wood, and waited till she conceived the cause of her terror -was removed. She soon perceived, however, that the tall figure behind -her was waiting for her reappearance. She determined to try the swiftness -of her foot, and sought with speed to gain the ferry:—she durst not look -behind:—the heavy steps of her pursuer gained upon her:—suddenly she felt -his hand upon her shoulder, as, with a shrill voice and loud laugh, he -triumphed at having overtaken her. She uttered a piercing shriek; for -on turning round she beheld.... - -His name I cannot at present declare; yet this I will say: it was terrible -to her to gaze upon that eye—so hollow, so wild, so fearful was its -glance. From the sepulchre, the dead appeared to have arisen to affright -her; and, scarce recovering from the dreadful vision, with a faltering -step, and beating heart, she broke from that grasp—that cold hand—that -dim-fixed eye—and gained with difficulty the hut of the fisherman, who -placed her in safety on the other side of the cliff. - -The castle bell had already summoned the family; dinner awaited; and -the duke having repeatedly enquired for Lady Margaret, was surprised -to hear that she had returned home alone and after dusk. The servant, -who informed him of this circumstance, said that her ladyship appeared -extremely faint and tired; that her women attendants had been called; -that they apprehended she was more ill than she would acknowledge. He -was yet speaking, when, with a blaze of beauty and even more than her -usual magnificence of dress, she entered, apologised for the lateness of -her appearance, said the walk was longer than she had apprehended, and, -taking her brother’s arm, led the way into the dining room. But soon the -effort she had made, proved too great:—her colour changed repeatedly; -she complained that the noise distracted her; she scarcely took any part -in the conversation, and retiring early, sought a few hours’ repose. - -Mrs. Seymour accompanied her out, whilst the rest of those whose -curiosity had been much excited in the morning, narrated their morning -adventures and enquired eagerly concerning Lord Glenarvon’s character -and mode of life. At the mention of his name, the colour rushed into -Calantha’s face. Was it himself she had seen?—She was convinced it -was. That countenance verified all that she had heard against him: it -was a full contradiction to all that Lady Trelawney had spoken in his -favour; it expressed a capability of evil—a subtlety that led the eye -of a stranger to distrust; but, with all, it was not easily forgotten. -The address to the people of Ireland which Lady Avondale had read before -with enthusiasm, she read now with a new, an undefinable sensation. She -drew also those features—that countenance; and remembered the air he had -sung and the tones of his voice.—She seemed to dive into the feelings of -a heart utterly different from what she had ever yet observed: a sort -of instinct gave her power at once to penetrate into its most secret -recesses; nor was she mistaken. She heard, with eager curiosity, every -anecdote narrated of him by the country esquires and gentry who dined -at the castle; but she felt not surprised at the inconsistencies and -absurdities repeated. Others discredited what was said: she believed the -worst; yet still the interest she felt was undiminished. It is strange: -she loved not—she admired not that countenance; yet, by day, by night, -it pursued her. She could not rest, nor write, nor read; and the fear -of again seeing it, was greater than the desire of doing so. She felt -assured that it was Lord Glenarvon:—there was not a doubt left upon her -mind respecting this circumstance. Mrs. Seymour saw that Calantha was -pre-occupied: she thought that she was acquainted with the secret which -disturbed Lady Margaret—that horrid secret which maddened and destroyed -her: for, since her adventure at the Priory, Lady Margaret had been ill. - -It was not till after some days retirement, that she sent for Calantha, -and when she visited her in her own apartment, she found her silent -and trembling. “Where is your boy?” she said. “He sleeps: would you -that I should bring him you?” “I do not mean your son: I mean that -minion—that gaudy thing, you dress up for your amusement—that fawning -insect Zerbellini.” Calantha shuddered; for she knew that a mother could -not thus speak of her child without suffering acutely. “Has my pretty -Zerbellini done any thing to deserve such unkind words from you? If so, -I will chide him for it. Why do you frown? Zerbellini haste here: make -your obeisance to Lady Margaret.” The boy approached: Lady Margaret fixed -her eyes steadily upon him: the colour rushed into her cheek, then left -her pale, as the hue of death. “_Oimè si muoja!_” exclaimed, Zerbellini: -“_Eccelenza si muoja_;” and he leant forward to support her; but Lady -Margaret moved not. - -Many moments passed in entire silence. At last, starting as if from -deep reflection, “Calantha” she said, “I know your heart too well to -doubt its kindness:—the presence of this child, will cause the misery of -your father.” “Of my father!” “Do you not guess wherefore? I read his -feelings yesterday: and can you my child be less quick in penetrating -the sentiments of those you love? do you not perceive that Zerbellini is -of the very age and size—your lost—and—lamented brother would have been? -... and certainly not unlike the duchess.” She hesitated—paused—recovered -herself. “I would not for the world have you suggest this to a human -being. I would not appear to have said—what you, out of an affectionate -regard might—should—have considered.”—“I am astonished: you quite amaze -me,” replied Calantha; yet she too well guessed her feelings. - -You heard your father yesterday say, how necessary it was for him to -attend the general meeting at Belfast: he flies us to avoid this boy—the -likeness—in short, oblige me, place him at the garden cottage, or at the -Rector of Belfont’s—he will attend to him. I am told you mean to leave -your children with Mr. Challoner: if so, he might likewise keep this -boy. His strong resemblance—his age—his manner—have given me already the -acutest pain.—My brother will never demand any sacrifice of you;—but I, -Lady Avondale,—I solicit it.—“Shall I be refused”? “Dearest aunt, can -you ask this? Zerbellini shall be immediately sent from the castle.” “Oh -no: such precipitate removal would excite curiosity.” “Well then, allow -me to place him, as you say, under the care of the Rector of Belfont -and his wife—or—” “But how strange—why—did you never observe this before?” - -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a hollow tone, “it is the common -talk: every one observes it: every eye fixes itself upon him, and seems -to—to—to—reproach—to-morrow—morn—to-morrow morning, I must quit this -place—business of importance calls me away—I hope to see you shortly: -I shall return as soon as possible—perhaps I shall not go.—The trifle -I now suggest, is solely for my brother’s sake.—If you mention one word -of this to any one, the sacrifice I ask will lose its value. Above all, -if the Count Gondimar is made a confidant.” “Fear not: I shall request -as of myself, that Zerbellini may be placed with my little son: but you -cannot think how much you surprise me. My father has seen the boy so -often; has spoken so frequently with him; has appeared so perfectly at -his ease.” - -“The boy,” said Lady Margaret, “is the living picture of—in short I -have dreamt a dreadful dream. Shall I confess my weakness, Calantha: -I dreamt last night, that I was sitting with a numerous and brilliant -assembly, even in this very castle; and of a sudden, robed in the white -vestments of an angel, that boy appeared—I saw his hand closely stealing -behind—he had a dagger in it—oh it made me sick—and coming towards me—I -mean towards your father—he stabbed him.—These phantasies shew an ill -constitution—but, for a short time, send the child away, and do not expose -my weakness—do not love. I have many sorrows—my nerves are shattered—bear -with me—you know not, and God forbid you should ever know, what it is -to labour under the pressure of guilt—guilt? aye,—and such as that brow -of innocence, that guileless generous heart, never can comprehend.” “My -aunt, for God sake, explain yourself.” Lady Margaret smiled. “Oh not such -guilt either, as to excite such looks as these: only I have suffered my -heart to wander, child; and I have been punished.” - -Calantha was less surprised at this conversation, from remembering the -secret Gondimar had communicated, than she otherwise must have been; but -she could not understand what had given rise to this paroxysm of despair -at that particular moment. A singular circumstance now occurred, which -occasioned infinite conjecture to all around. Every morning, as soon as -it was light, and every evening at dusk, a tall old man in a tattered -garb, with a wild and terrible air, seated himself in front of the castle -windows, making the most lamentable groans, and crying out in an almost -unintelligible voice, “Woe, on woe, to the family of Altamonte.” The -Duke was no sooner apprised of this circumstance, than he ordered the -supposed maniac to be taken up; but Lady Margaret implored, entreated -and even menaced, till she obtained permission from her brother to give -this wretched object his liberty. - -Such an unusual excess of charity—such sudden, and violent commiseration -of a being who appeared to have no other view than the persecution and -annoyance of her whole family, was deemed strange; but when they no longer -were molested by the presence of the fanatic, who had denounced their -ruin, they ceased to converse about him, and soon the whole affair was -forgotten. Calantha indeed remembered it; but a thousand new thoughts -diverted her attention, and a stronger interest led her from it. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The Rector of Belfont had willingly permitted the little Zerbellini to be -placed under his wife’s care. The distance from thence to the castle was -short; and Calantha had already sent her children there for the benefit -of sea-bathing. On returning one day thence, she called upon Gerald Mac -Allain, who had absented himself from the castle, ever since Mr. Buchanan -had appeared there. She found him mournfully employed in looking over -some papers and drawings, which he had removed to his own habitation. -Upon seeing Lady Avondale he arose, and pointing to the drawings, which -she recognized: “Poor Alice,” he said, “these little remembrances tell -me of happier days, and make me sad; but when I see you, my Lady, I -forget my sorrows.” Linden’s cottage was at a very little distance from -Gerald Mac Allain’s. Calantha now informed him that she had met young -Linden at the fair, and had wished to speak to him; but that she did not -immediately remember him, he was so altered. Gerald said “it was no use -for her to speak to him, or for any one else, he was so desperate-like; -and,” added he, “Alice’s misconduct has broke all our hearts: we never -meet now as formerly; we scarce dare look at each other as we pass.” - -“Tell me, Gerald,” said Calantha, “since you have spoken to me on this -melancholy subject, what is the general opinion about Alice? Has Linden -no idea of what has become of her?—had he no suspicion, no doubt of her, -till the moment when she fled?” “Oh yes, my Lady,” said the old man, -“my poor girl estranged herself from him latterly; and when Linden was -obliged to leave her to go to the county of Leitrim for Mr. O’Flarney, -during his absence, which lasted six weeks, he received a letter from -her, expressing her sorrow that she never could belong to him. Upon -his return he found her utterly changed; and in a few weeks after, she -declined his further visits; only once again consenting to see him. It -was on the very morning before my Lady Margaret conveyed her away from -the castle.” - -“But did you never suspect that things were going on ill before?—did -Linden make no attempt to see her at the Doctor’s? It seems strange -that no measures should have been taken before it was too late.” “Alas! -my dear young lady, you do not know how difficult it is to suspect and -chide what we love dearly. I had given up my child into other hands; she -was removed entirely from my humble sphere; and whilst I saw her happy, -I could not but think her deserving; and when she became otherwise, -she was miserable, and it was not the moment to shew her any severity. -Indeed, indeed, it was impossible for me to mistrust or chide one so -above me as my Alice. As to young Linden, it turned his mind. I walked -to his father’s house, ill as I was, just to shake hands with him and -see him, as soon as I was told of what had passed. The old gentleman, -Cyrel’s father, could not speak. The mother wept as soon as she beheld -me; but there was not one bitter word fell from either, though they knew -it would prove the ruin of the young man, their son, and perhaps his -death.” - -“From that time, till the present,” continued Gerald, “I seldom see -Linden; he always avoids me. He altered very much, and took to hard -drinking and bad company; his mind was a little shaken; he grew very slack -at his duty; and listed, we suppose, with that same gang, which seduced -my two poor boys from their allegiance and duty. He was reprimanded and -punished by his commander; but it seems all one, for Mr. Challoner was -telling me, only a few days since, that in the last business there with -Squire O’Flarney, Linden was taken notice of by the justice. There’s -no one can save him, he seems so determined-like on his own ruin; and -they say, it’s the cause why the old father is on his death-bed at this -present time. There is no bitterness of heart like that which comes from -thankless children. They never find out, till it is too late, how parents -loved them:—but it was not her fault—no—I don’t blame her—(he knit his -brow)—no—I don’t blame her.—Mr. Buchanan is no child of our own house, -though he fills the place of that gracious infant which it pleased the -Lord to take to himself. Mr. Buchanan is the son of a strange father:—I -cannot consider him as one of our own—so arbitrary:—but that’s not the -thing.” - -“Gerald,” said Calantha, “you are not sure that Buchanan is the culprit: -we should be cautious in our judgments.” “Oh, but I am sure, and I -care not to look on him; and Linden, they say, menaces to revenge on -the young lord, my wrongs and his own; but his old father begs him for -God’s sake to be peaceable. Perhaps, my Lady, you will look on the poor -gentleman: what though ’tis a dying man—you’ll be gratified to see him, -there is such a calm upon his countenance.” “Must he die?” “Why, he’s -very precarious-like:—but your noble husband, the young Lord Avondale, -is very good to him—he has done all a man and a soldier could do to save -him.” “I too will call,” said Calantha, to hide from Gerald how much -she was affected; “and, as to you, I must entreat as a favour, that you -will return to the castle: to-morrow is Harry’s birth-day; and it will -not be a holiday, my father says, if you are not, as you were wont to -be, at the head of the table with all the tenants.” “I will come,” said -Gerald, “if it were only on account of my Lord’s remembering me: and -all the blessings of the land go with him, and you, and his noble house, -till the end of time, and with the young Lord of Glenarvon beside, who -saved Roy and Conal from a shameful death—that he did.” - -“But you forget,” said Calantha, smiling, “that, by your own account, -he was the first to bring them there.” “By my heart, but he’s a noble -spirit for all that; and he has my good wishes, and those of many beside.” -As he spoke, his eye kindled with enthusiasm. Calantha’s heart beat -high: she listened with eager interest. “He’s as generous as our own,” -continued he; “and if he lets his followers take a pig or two from that -rogue there, Squire Flarney, does not he give half he has to those in -distress? If I could ever meet him face to face, I’d tell him the same; -but we never know when he’s among us; for sure, there’s St. Clara the -prophetess, he went to see her once, they say, and she left her aunt the -Abbess, and the convent, and all the nuns, and went off after him, as -mad as the rest. Och! you’d bless yourself to see how the folks crowd -about him at the season, but they’re all gone from these parts now, in -hopes of saving Linden, I’m told; for you know, I suppose, that he’s -missing, and if he’s deserted, it’s said they are sure to shoot him on -account of the troubles.” - -“Three times there have been meetings in that cleft there,” continued -Gerald, pointing towards the Wizzard’s Glen: “it was that was the first -undoing of Miss St. Clare: they tell me she’s all for our being delivered -from our tyrants; and she prophecies so, it would do you good to hear her. -Oh, they move along, a thousand at a time, in a silence would surprise -you—just in the still night, and you can scarce hear them tread as they -pass; but I know well when they’re coming, and there is not one of us who -live here about the town, would betray them, though the reward offered -is very stupendous.” - -“But see, here are some of the military coming” ... “That officer is -General Kennedy,” said Lady Avondale, approaching towards him: “he is -not a tyrant at least.” As she said this, she bowed to him, for she -knew him well. He often dined at the Castle. He was saying a few words -to her upon common uninteresting topics, when, a soldier beckoning to -him, two horsemen appeared.—“He’s found,” said one: “there is no doubt -of his guilt; and twenty other names are on the list.” “I trust in God -it is not Linden, of whom you are speaking,” said Calantha. General -Kennedy made no answer: he only bowed to her, as if to excuse himself; -and retired. - -Calantha observed a vast number of people assembled on the road, close -to the village. Gerald Mac Allain could scarcely support himself. -She enquired what they were waiting for. “To see the deserters,” they -answered. It was women, children, parents who spoke: some wept aloud; -others stood in silent anguish; many repeated the name of him in whom -they took deepest interest, asking if his was of the number. Linden’s -she heard most frequently. “Ill luck to the monsters!—ill luck to the -men of blood!” was vociferated the whole way she went. “This will kill -the old man,” said Gerald: “it will be his death: he has been all night -fearing it, ever since Linden has been missing.” - -The crowd, seeing Calantha, approached in all directions. “Oh beg our -king, your father, to save them,” said one: “Jesus reward you:” and they -knelt and prayed to her. She was too much affected to answer. Some of -the officers approached her, and advised her to retire. “The crowd will -be immense,” they said: “your Ladyship had better not remain to witness -this heartbreaking scene.” “Twenty names are on the list,” continued the -officer, “all deserted, as soon as Linden did. Mercy, in this instance, -will be weakness: too much has already been shewn.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Calantha returned home with a heavy heart; and spoke to Lord Avondale and -her father. They both intreated her not to interfere. The moment indeed -was alarming and eventful; whatever measures were necessary, it was not -for her to judge; and while enthusiasm in the cause of liberty beguiled -some, it was, she felt it was, the duty of a woman to try and soften -and conciliate every thing. Linden’s fate was peculiarly unfortunate, -and Lord Avondale generously interested himself for him. Had money -been able to purchase his release, there was no sum he would not have -offered. They heard with the deepest regret, that it was a case where -mercy could not be shewn, without apprehending the most fatal effects -from it. Linden and Seaford had together entered the militia not above -three years back. Linden, an only son, was now in his twentieth year, -and Seaford, was scarce eighteen. Their example was deemed the more -necessary for the general safety, as so many in the same regiment had -deserted upon hearing of their disaffection. In the month of December -last, they had all taken the treasonable oaths; and their rash conduct -and riotous proceedings had already more than once incurred the severity -of the law. - -Linden and two others had been accused, and afterwards pardoned on a -former occasion: their names had been likewise erased from the list -of offenders. This second breach of faith was deemed unpardonable. -Mercy, it was supposed, would but appear like weakness and alarm; all -intercessions were utterly fruitless; they were tried, found guilty and -condemned. Linden was so much beloved by his companions, that several -attempts were made, even by his fellow-soldiers and comrades, to rescue -him from the hands of justice; but he disdained to be so released; and -when he heard of the tumult his condemnation had excited, he asked his -captain’s permission to be spared the last bitter conflict of walking -through his own native town. The request was denied him. - -On the 18th of May, at the hour of four, the time appointed to assemble, -twenty-three men, who had taken part in the riot, were called out. The -regiment, after this, slowly advanced in solemn procession through the -town, followed by the cavalry, and all the horse artillery. The streets -were thronged—the windows were crowded—not a word was spoken; but the -sobs and cries of friends, parents and old acquaintance, who came out -to take a last farewell, were heard. After passing through Belfont, they -turned to the high road, and continued the march until they reached the -plains above Inis Tara, about two miles from the town. - -Linden and Seaford were then brought forward with a strong escort. They -continued silent and firm to the last. Just as the pause was made, before -the command was given that they should kneel, the mother of Linden, -supported by Mac Allain, forced her way through the crowd, and implored -permission to take a last farewell of her son. The officer desired that -she might pass; but the crowd was so great that it was with difficulty -she could arrive at the spot:—when there, she only once shook hands with -the young man, and said she had brought him his father’s blessing:—he -made no answer, but appeared very deeply affected. He had shewn the most -deliberate courage till that hour. It now forsook him, and he trembled -excessively. - -“Thank God I am spared this,” said his companion: “I have no mother left.” -The signal was immediately given to fire; and the party prepared to do -their duty. A troop of horse at that moment, in the green uniform of -the national guards, appeared from an ambush, and a desperate struggle -ensued. The mutineers set up a terrible yell during the combat. The -inhabitants, both of the town and country, joined them in every direction. -Lord Avondale and many other officers present came up to the assistance -of General Kennedy’s small force, and soon restored order. The party of -horse were put to flight. The colonel of the regiment immediately ordered -a court-martial; and three prisoners, who were taken with Seaford and -Linden, were executed on the spot. - -In the skirmish, the young man who headed the party of horse, and exposed -himself most eagerly to rescue Linden, was wounded in the left arm: -his person was described; the circumstance was mentioned; and a high -reward was offered for his head. It was supposed by many that he was -Lord Glenarvon. - -The severity of these proceedings struck an immediate panic throughout the -disaffected. The inhabitants of the town of Belfont arrayed themselves -in black. A long and mournful silence succeeded; and few there were -who penetrated, under the veil of submissive acquiescence, the spirit -of rebellion and vengeance, which was preparing to burst forth. Gerald -Mac Allain, forgetful of his wrongs, appeared at the castle; Lady St. -Clare wrote the most penitent letter to Sir Everard; and with her two -daughters Jessica and Laura, entreated permission to return. Every one -of the tradesmen and farmers of any respectability took their names -from the new club, opposite Sir Everard’s house; and a sort of mournful -tranquillity and terror seemed to reign throughout. - -A few days after this melancholy transaction, Linden’s mother died; -and as Calantha was returning from Belfont, she met the crowd who had -followed her to the grave. They all passed her in silence, nor gave her -one salutation, or smile of acknowledgment, as on other occasions; yet -they were her father’s own tenants, and most of their countenances she -remembered from childhood. When she mentioned this circumstance at the -castle, she was informed that Lord Avondale’s having taken an active -part against the party who had come forward to save the deserters, was -the cause of this. - -To such heights, at this time, was the spirit of party carried. The whole -kingdom, indeed, was in a state of ferment and disorder. Complaints were -made, redress was claimed, and the people were everywhere mutinous and -discontented. Even the few of their own countrymen, who possessed the -power, refused to attend to the grievances and burthens of which the -nation generally complained, and sold themselves for hire, to the English -government. Numerous absentees had drawn great part of the money out of -the country; oppressive taxes were continued; land was let and sub-let -to bankers and stewards of estates, to the utter ruin of the tenants; -and all this caused the greatest discontent. - -Some concessions were now granted in haste—some assurances of relief -made; but the popular spirit of indignation, once excited, was not to be -allayed by the same means which had, perhaps, prevented its first rise. -The time for conciliation was past. A foreign enemy lost no opportunity -of adding to the increasing inward discontent. The friends of government -had the power of the sword and the weight of influence on their side; but -the enemies were more numerous, more desperate, more enthusiastic. The -institution of political clubs, the combination of the United Irishmen, -for the purpose of forwarding a brotherhood of affection, a communion -of rights, amongst those of every different persuasion, even a military -force was now attempted; and the constant cry of all the inhabitants -of either town or country was a total repeal of the penal statutes, the -elective franchise, reform of parliament, and commutation of tythes. - -Whilst, however, the more moderate with sincerity imagined, that they were -upholding the cause of liberty and religion; the more violent, who had -emancipated their minds from every restraint of prejudice or principle, -did not conceal that the equalization of property, and the destruction -of rank and titles was their real object. The revolutionary spirit was -fast spreading, and since the appearance of Lord Glenarvon, at Belfont, -the whole of the county around was in a state of actual rebellion. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Glenarvon seemed, however, to differ in practice from his principles; for -whilst many of those who had adopted the same language had voluntarily -thrown off their titles, and divided their property amongst their -partizans, he made a formal claim for the titles his grandfather had -forfeited; and though he had received no positive assurance that his -claim would be considered, he called himself by that name alone, and -insisted upon his followers addressing him in no other manner. This -singular personage, of whom so many, for a long period, had heard the -strangest reports, whom many imagined to be dead, and who seemed, whenever -he appeared, to make no light impression upon all those with whom he -conversed, had passed his youth in a foreign country, and had only twice -visited the abode of his ancestors until the present year. - -It was amidst the ruins of ancient architecture, and the wild beauties -of Italian scenery, that his splendid genius and uncommon faculties were -first developed. Melancholy, unsocial, without a guide, he had centered -upon himself every strong interest, and every aspiring hope. Dwelling -ever in the brilliant regions of fancy, his soul turned with antipathy -from the ordinary cares of life. He deeply felt the stigma that had been -cast upon his family in the person of his grandfather, who, from the -favourite of a changing prince, had become the secret accomplice of a -bloody conspiracy. The proofs of his guilt were clear; his death was a -death of shame; and the name of traitor was handed down with the coronet -to which his only surviving heir so eagerly aspired. - -By his nearest friends he was now called Glenarvon; and so jealous did he -appear of his rank, that he preferred disguise, straits and difficulties, -to a return to his own country without those titles, and that fortune, -which he considered as his due. One object of interest succeeded another; -a life of suspense was preferred to apathy; and the dark counsels of -unprincipled associates, soon led one, already disloyal in heart, to the -very brink of destruction. Flushed with the glow of intemperate heat, -or pale with the weariness of secret woe, he vainly sought in a career -of pleasure, for that happiness which his restless mind prevented him -from enjoying. - -Glenarvon had embraced his father’s profession, wherein he had -distinguished himself by his courage and talent; but to obey another was -irksome; and the length of time which must elapse before he could obtain -the command of a ship, soon disgusted him with the service. He plunged, -therefore, into all the tumults of dissipation, to which a return to -Rome and Florence invited him. - -He gave up his days and nights to every fierce excess; and soon the high -spirit of genius was darkened, the lofty feelings of honor were debased, -and the frame and character sunk equally dejected under the fatigue of -vigils and revels, in which reason and virtue had no share. Intervals of -gloom succeeded, till, stimulated again, his fallen countenance betrayed -a disappointed heart; and he fled from unjoyous feasts and feverish hopes -to lowliness and sullen despair. He had been wronged, and he knew not -how to pardon: he had been deceived, and he existed henceforward, but to -mislead others. His vengeance was dark and sudden—it was terrible. His -mind, from that hour, turned from the self-approving hope, the peace of -a heart at rest. - -The victim of his unfortunate attachment had fallen a prey to the -revengeful jealousy of an incensed husband; but her death was not more -sudden, more secret, than that of the tyrant who had destroyed her. Every -one knew by whose hand the fair and lovely Fiorabella had perished; but -no eye bore witness against the assassin, who, in the depths of night had -immediately revenged her loss. The murderer and the murdered were both -alike involved in the impenetrable veil of mystery. The proud and noble -family who had been injured, had neither the power, nor the inclination -to seek redress. Lord Glenarvon was seen no more at Florence: he had been -the cause of this tragic scene. It afflicted his generous heart when he -reflected upon the misery he had occasioned; but not even his bitterest -enemy could have suspected him of deeper guilt. His youth was untainted -by the suspicion of crime, and the death of Giardini, with greater show -of justice, was affixed to another, and a more dangerous hand. - -Fascinated with the romantic splendour of ideal liberty, and intent -upon flying from the tortures of remembrance, which the death of his -mistress, and the unpleasant circumstances attending Giardini’s murder -must naturally excite, he had visited Ireland in the spring of the year -..., and had remained there some months, unknown even to his adherents, -who flocked around him, attracted by his eloquence, and easily won by -his address. One only victim returned with him in his voluntary exile, -from his native land. One only miserable enthusiast devoted herself to -his fortunes, and accompanied him in his flight. O’Kelly, the son of a -tenant of his father’s recognized his youthful lord, and early ingratiated -himself into his favour. - -With this sole attendant, and the unhappy girl who had renounced her -country and her virtue for his sake, he departed, nor was seen again at -St. Alvin Priory till the present year. - -Indeed the report of his death was so often affirmed, that when he -again presented himself, so changed in manner and in form, before his -adherents, they questioned one with another whether he was in reality -their lord. “I am not what I seem,” he would frequently say; “I am not -him whom you take me for.” - -Strange things were rumoured concerning this Glenarvon. There was a man -in his service who had returned with him, who spoke to none, who answered -no enquiries, who had never before been seen with him in his former -visits. It was said that he knew many things if he durst but utter them. -All feared and avoided this man. His name was Macpherson, the same whom -Gondimar had seen in town; but all felt irresistably attracted by his -youthful master. Glenarvon’s projects—his intentions were now but too -generally suspected;—it was a critical moment; and his presence at that -particular time, in Ireland, occasioned many conjectures. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -In this his second visit to his native country, Glenarvon desired his -servant, O’Kelly, to find a person of respectability who would take -charge of a child, then only in his second year. Clare of Costolly was -his name; but whether the boy was the son of Lord Glenarvon, or some -little favourite who, for the moment, had obtained his interest, none -knew, or durst enquire. - -Indeed, the impenetrable mystery which surrounded Lord Glenarvon was -involved in a deeper shade of concealment at this time, than at any -former period; for scarce had he set foot in his new habitation, when -a singular and terrific inmate appeared also at the Priory—a maniac! -who was however welcomed with the rest of the strange assemblage, and -a room immediately allotted for his reception. In vain the affrighted -nurse remonstrated; the maniac’s eyes were fixed upon the child, with -frantic wildness; and Glenarvon, deaf to her entreaties, permitted Clare -to attend upon the unwelcome stranger and saw him in his arms without -alarm. - -Even in his most dreadful paroxysms, when all others were afraid of -approaching him, Glenarvon would calmly enter into his chamber, would -hear his threats unawed,—would gaze on him, as if it gave him delight -to watch the violence of misguided passion; to hear the hollow laugh of -ideotsy, or fix the convulsed eye of raving insanity. - -That which was disgusting or terrific to man’s nature, had no power -over Glenarvon. He had looked upon the dying and the dead; had seen -the tear of agony without emotion; had heard the shriek of despair, -and felt the hot blood as it flowed from the heart of a murdered enemy, -nor turned from the sickening sight—even the storms of nature could not -move Glenarvon. In the dark night, when the tempest raged around and the -stormy ocean beat against the high impending cliffs, he would venture -forth, would listen to the roaring thunder without fear, and watch the -forked lightning as it flashed along the sky. - -The rushing winds but seemed to sooth his perturbed spirit; and the calm -of his brow remained unaltered in every changing scene. Yet it was the -calm of hopeless despair, when passion, too violent to shew itself by -common means, concentrates itself at once around the heart, and steels -it against every sentiment of mercy. - -Who had dared to enquire of that eye the meaning of its glance? or who -had trusted to the music of that soft voice, when it breathed forth -vows of tenderness and love? or who, believing in the light of life -which beamed upon that countenance, had considered the sportive jests of -fancy—the brilliant sallies of that keen wit as the overflowing testimony -of a heart at rest? None—none believed or trusted in Glenarvon.—Yet -thousands flocked around and flattered him; amidst this band of ruffians, -this lawless unprincipled gang, the recluse of Glanaa—the lovely, but -misguided Elinor was now too often seen. She was the spirit and soul -of the merry party: her wit enlivened; her presence countenanced; her -matchless beauty attracted. Scarce in her sixteenth year, the pride of -her family, the wonder and ornament of the whole country, she forsook -her solitude and hopes of heaven—she left the aunt, who had fostered -and cherished her from childhood, to become avowedly the mistress of -Glenarvon. On horse, or on foot, she accompanied him. In the attire of -a boy she unblushingly followed his steps! his former favourites were -never even named, or alluded to—his present mistress occupied all his -attention. - -When St. Clara described the sufferings of her country, every heart -melted to compassion, or burned with indignation; but when her master, -when Glenarvon played upon her harp, or sung the minstrelsy of the -bards of other times, he inspired the passions which he felt, and -inflamed the imagination of his hearers to deeds of madness—to acts of -the most extravagant absurdity. Crowds followed upon his steps; yet it -was melancholy to see them pass—so fair, so young and yet so utterly -hardened and perverted. Who could behold her, and not compassionate her -fate? What was to become of her when Glenarvon had ceased to love; and -did he love?—Never: in the midst of conquests, his heart was desolate; -in the fond embrace of mutual affection, he despised the victim of his -art. - -Of all the friends, flatterers and followers, he had gained by his -kindness, and lost by his caprice, not one remained to fill, in his bosom, -that craving void which he himself had made. Wherever he appeared, new -beauty attracted his worship, and yielded to his power; yet he valued -not the transient possession, even whilst smiling upon the credulous -being who had believed in his momentary affection. Even whilst soothing -her with promises and vows, which he meant not for one hour to perform, -he was seeking the means of extricating himself from her power—he was -planning his escape from the thraldom of her charms? Was he generous? -Aye, and prodigal by nature; but there was a part of his character which -ill accorded with the rest: it was a spirit of malignity if wounded, -which never rested till it had satisfied its vengeance. An enemy, he -could have pardoned and have loved; but he knew not how to bear with or -forgive a friend. - -His actions appeared the immediate result of impulse; but his passions -were all subject to his controul, and there was a systematic consistency -even in his most irregular conduct. To create illusions, and raise -affection in the breasts of others, has been the delight of many: to -dispel the interest he had created was Glenarvon’s care. Love he had -studied as an art: he knew it in all its shades and gradations; for he -had traced its progress in his own and many another breast. Of knowledge -and wisdom, he had drank deep at the fountain head, nor wanted aught -that could give liveliness and variety to his discourse. - -He was, besides, a skilful flatterer, and knew in what weak part, he -best might apply his power. But the sweetness of his praise, could only -be exceeded by the bitterness of his contempt—the venomed lash of his -deadly wit. - -That in which Glenarvon most prided himself—that in which he most -excelled, was the art of dissembling. He could turn and twine so near -the truth, with more than Machiavelian subtlety, that none could readily -detect his falsehood; and when he most appeared frank and unguarded, then -he most deceived. Falsehood and craft were stamped upon his countenance, -written upon his brow, marked in his words, and scarce concealed beneath -the winning smile which oftentimes played upon his lips. - -“If I could but see him once,” said Lady Augusta, “I should be satisfied; -but to hear his name from morning till night—to have every fault, folly, -nay even crime attributed to him by one party, and every virtue, charm -and fascination given him by the other,—it is enough to distract women -in general, and me in particular. Is there no mercy for curiosity? I -feel I shall do something absurd, extremely absurd, if an interview is -not contrived.” “Nothing can be more easy,” said the Duke: “you shall -dine with him, at the next public day. I have already sent him a card -of invitation.” “Under what title?” “To Captain de Ruthven.” “He will -assuredly not come,” said Lady Trelawney. “That I think probable,” said -the Duke, laughing. “The malicious affirm that his arm is in a sling; and -if so, his appearance just at present would be unwise.” The conversation -soon took another turn; and Lord Avondale entering, informed Calantha -that he had a letter from Sir Richard, and must immediately join him at -Cork. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Admiral Buchanan and Sir Richard Mowbray had, in the month of January, -returned to England, where they had received the thanks of the Lower -House for their distinguished conduct and assistance on the memorable -4th of June. The ships had been now ordered into harbour to undergo some -trifling repairs, and the Admirals had been commanded to take their -station at Cork. The enthusiasm with which the heroes were greeted on -their return, did honour to the feelings of the Irish nation. They were -invited to every house in the neighbourhood; and _fêtes_ and balls were -given to shew them respect. The Duke and Lord Avondale went forward to -receive them. - -Commodore Emmet, an old acquaintance who resided at Cork, sent to offer -his house, not only to them, but to the whole party at Castle Delaval; -if they could make up their minds to accept Sir George’s invitation, and -dine on board the Royal William on the 4th of June, in commemoration of -that day and its success. There were few, if any, of those invited who -refused; but none accepted the invitation with so much enthusiasm as -Calantha. The letter from Sir George Buchanan to Lady Margaret, was as -follows:— - - “Cork, June 1st, 1796. - - “My dear Lady Margaret, - - “In answer to a letter which I received this morning, dated May - 29th, ult. I request the honour of your Ladyship’s company on - board the Royal William, now in harbour at the Cove. The Duke - and the rest of his family and party have already promised me - this favour, and I am not prepared to accept from yourself any - denial on account of those circumstances to which you allude, - and which, I entreat you sincerely to believe are, on my part, - utterly forgotten. Let me request you, then, to banish from - your memory every trifling disagreement, and to meet me, upon - an occasion so flattering as is the present to my feelings and - those of our friends, with the good-will and kindness you will - ever find in the heart of your Ladyship’s most obedient and - affectionate brother and servant, - - “GEORGE BUCHANAN.” - -In consequence of this invitation, Lady Margaret and the rest of the -Duke’s family set out on the morning of the 3rd, and arrived about -the hour of dinner at Commodore Emmet’s—a large brick building about a -quarter of a mile beyond the town of Cork. The Duke and Lord Avondale, -and their loquacious host, had been waiting some time, it appeared, in -much anxiety. The latter gave to each the most cordial welcome; boasted -that he could lodge them all; talked incessantly, as he shewed them to -their apartments; entreated them not to dress, as dinner awaited; and -left them, assuring each that they were the exact image of the Duke, -whom he concluded to be, like the Patriarchs of old, the father of the -whole company. His voice murmured on as he descended the stairs, whilst -Cassandra and Eloise, his daughters, appeared to offer their services -in his place. - -The dining-room was small; the guests were numerous; the table was -crowded with huge pieces of meat: the Commodore talked incessantly; -his children, his servants, his brother, seemed all gifted alike with -the same spirit of activity: it was incessant bustle, hurry, noise -and contrivance. Music, cards, and tricks of every kind were displayed -during the evening; and in the morning, long before the sun had arisen, -carpenters, mechanics, ship-builders, and cooks, awoke the guests by -the noise of their respective pursuits. - -Sir George Buchanan had sent to request the Duke’s company at an early -hour on the morrow. The day proved fair, the boats were ready, and they -set forth on their expedition in high spirits. Many ships and smaller -vessels were spread over the harbour; and bands of music played as they -passed. The beauty of the cove of Cork, the trees bending to the water -side, the fortress, and the animated picture which a mercantile city -presents,—delighted all. But feelings of enthusiasm kindled, in every -heart, when they approached the Royal William, and beheld its venerable -commander. The sea was rough, and the spray of the waves was at times -blown over the boat. The Miss Emmets thought of their new dresses; Sophia -of danger; and Calantha of the glory of thus proudly riding over the -billowy ocean. - -Lady Margaret, though silent, was more deeply agitated:—her mind recurred -in thought to scenes long past. She was now to behold, after a lapse of -many years, her husband’s brother, whom she had treated with the most -marked indignity, and for whom she had vainly attempted to feel contempt. -He had ever conducted himself towards her with courteous, though distant -civility; but had yet shewn the most decided disapprobation of her -conduct. When she had last beheld him, she was in the full splendour -of youth and beauty, surrounded by an admiring world, and triumphant in -the possession of every earthly enjoyment. Time had but little changed -the majesty of her form; but something worse than time had stamped upon -her countenance an expression never to be effaced; while her marked brow -assumed an air of sullen pride and haughty reserve: as she ascended from -the boat into the ship, she gazed upon the long forgotten features of her -brother; and she seemed to be deeply affected. Age had bleached his once -dark locks; but he was still unimpaired in mind and form. He bent lowly -down to receive her: she felt him clasp her to his bosom; and, overcome -by this unexpected kindness, her tears streamed upon his hand:—he, too, -could have wept; but, recovering himself, with a commanding air, he came -forward to receive his other guests. - -The ship was in the highest order; the feast prepared was magnificent; -and when the Duke stood up and bowed with grace to drink the Admiral’s -health, the sailors cheered, and the toast was repeated from the heart -by every individual. But he, though greatly affected and pleased at the -homage shewn him, bowed to the Duke, returning him the compliment; and -afterwards, drinking the health of Sir Richard Mowbray, said, that he -owed every thing to his assistance—that, in the glorious action of the -4th, his ship had conferred new honours on the British Navy, and he had -received the commendation of Admiral Howe. - -At that name, every individual arose. The name of Howe was repeated -from mouth to mouth with an expression of exalted admiration; his -applauses were spoken by every tongue; and many an eye that had never -shewn weakness, till that moment, filled with tears at the name of their -venerable, their dear commander. Captain Emmet, during this scene, was -employed in eating voraciously of whatever he could lay hands on. Miss -Emmet, who thought it a great honor to converse with a lord, had seated -herself by the side of Lord Avondale, narrating her own adventures, -freely stating her own opinions, and pleased with herself and every -one present; while her father likewise talked at the other end of the -table, and Admiral Buchanan laughed heartily, but good humouredly at -his friend’s oppressive eloquence. - -Suddenly Lord Avondale turned to Calantha and asked her if she were -ill? She knew not, she could not define the sort of pain and joy she -felt at that moment. Her eyes had long been fixed upon one who took no -part in this convivial scene—whose pale cheek and brow expressed much -of disappointed hope, or of joyless indifference. He had that youthful, -nay boyish air, which rendered this melancholy the more singular.—It -was not affected, though his manner had in it nothing of nature; but -the affectation was rather that of assumed respect for those he cared -not for, and assumed interest in topics to which he hardly attended, -than the reverse. He even affected gaiety; but the heart’s laugh never -vibrated from his lips; and, if he uttered a sentence, his eye seemed -to despise the being who listened with avidity to his observation. It -was the same,—oh! yes, it was, indeed, the same, whom Calantha had one -moment beheld at St. Alvin Priory. - -His face, his features, were the same, it is true; but a deeper shade of -sadness now overspread them; and sorrow and disappointment had changed -the glow of boyish health to a more pallid hue. What! in a month? it -will be said.—A day might, perhaps, have done it. However, in the present -instance, it was not as if some sudden and defined misfortune had opprest -the soul by a single blow: it was rather as if every early hope had -long been blighted; and every aspiring energy had been destroyed. There -was nothing pleasing to gaze upon: it was mournful; but it excited not -sympathy, nor confidence. The arm was in a sling—the left arm. There -could be no doubt that he was the hero who had risked his life to save -young Linden. Was it, indeed, Lord Glenarvon whom Calantha beheld? Yes, -it was himself.—Face to face she stood before him, and gazed with eager -curiosity upon him. - -Never did the hand of the Sculptor, in the full power of his art, produce -a form and face more finely wrought, so full of soul, so ever-varying in -expression. Was it possible to behold him unmoved? Oh! was it in woman’s -nature to hear him, and not to cherish every word he uttered? And, -having heard him, was it in the human heart ever again to forget those -accents, which awakened every interest, and quieted every apprehension? -The day, the hour, that very moment of time was marked and destined. It -was Glenarvon—it was that spirit of evil whom she beheld; and her soul -trembled within her, and felt its danger. - -Calantha was struck suddenly, forcibly struck; yet the impression made -upon her, was not in Glenarvon’s favour. The eye of the rattle-snake, it -has been said, once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it with terror and -alarm: the bird, thus charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it sings -its last sweet lay; flutters its little pinions in the air; then falls -like a shot before its destroyer, unable to fly from his fascination. -Calantha bowed, therefore with the rest, pierced to the heart at once by -the maddening power that destroys alike the high and low; but she liked -not the wily turn of his eye, the contemptuous sneer of his curling -lip, the soft passionless tones of his voice;—it was not nature, or if -it was nature, not that to which she had been accustomed;—not the open, -artless expression of a guileless heart. - -Starting from the kind of dream in which she had for one moment been -wrapped, she now looked around her. The affectation with which she veiled -the interest she felt, is scarce accountable. - -Lord Glenarvon was the real object of her thoughts, yet she appeared -alone to be occupied with every other. She laughed with Lord Trelawney; -talked to the Miss Emmets; examined with interest every part of the -ship, carelessly approaching the very edge of it; yet once she met that -glance, which none ever who had seen, could forget, and she stopped -as if rivetted to the earth.—He smiled; but whether it was a smile of -approbation, or of scorn, she could not discover: the upper lip was -curled, as if in derision; but the hand that was stretched out to save -her, as she stood on the brink of the vessel, and the soft silvery voice -which gently admonished her to beware, lest one false step should plunge -her headlong into the gulph below, soon re-assured her. - -It was late before the Duke took leave of the admiral, who promised to -breakfast with the Commodore the ensuing day. The guns once more were -fired; the band played as for their arrival; but the music now seemed -to breathe a sadder strain; for it was heard, softened by distance, and -every stroke of the oars rendered the sounds more and more imperfect. -The sun was setting, and cast its lustre on the still waves: even the -loquacity of the Emmets was for a few moments suspended; it was a moment -which impressed the heart with awe; it was a scene never to be forgotten. -The splendour of conquest, the tumult of enthusiasm, the aged veteran, -and more than all, perhaps, that being who seemed early wrecked in the -full tide of misfortune, were all fixed indelibly in Calantha’s memory. -Future times might bring new interests and events; magnificence might -display every wonderful variety; but the impression of that scene never -can be effaced. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Calantha could not speak one word during the evening; but while Miss -Emmets sung—indifferently, she listened and even wept at what never -before excited or interest, or melancholy. At night, when in sleep, one -image pursued her,—it was all lovely—all bright: it seemed to be clothed -in the white garments of an angel; it was too resplendent for eyes to -gaze on:—she awoke. Lord Avondale slept in the inner room; she arose and -looked upon him, whilst he reposed. How long, how fondly she had loved -those features—that form. What grace, what majesty, what beauty was -there! But when those eyes awake, she said, they will not look for me. -That heart is at peace, and thou canst sleep, Henry, and my sorrows are -not known or heeded by thee. Happy Avondale:—Miserable, guilty Calantha! - -At an early hour the ensuing day, Captain Emmet proposed a drive to -Donallan Park, which he said was a fair domain, fully deserving the -attention of the Duke of Altamonte. Cassandra and Heloisa clamorously -seconded this proposal. In this energetic family, Mrs. Emmet alone gave -the eye and the ear a little repose. Stretched upon a couch in languid -listless inactivity, she gazed upon the bustling scene before her, as if -entirely unconnected with it; nor seemed to know of greater suffering -than when called from her reveries, by the acute voices of her family, -to the bustle and hurry of common life. To the question of whether she -would accompany them to Donallan Park, she answered faintly, that she -would not go. A fat and friendly lieutenant, who fondly hung over her, -urged her to relent, and with some difficulty, at length, persuaded her -to do so. - -Every one appeared much pleased with their excursion, or possibly with -some incident during their drive, which had made any excursion agreeable. -Of Donallan Park, however, Calantha remembered little: this alone, she -noted, that as they walked through a shrubbery, Lord Glenarvon suddenly -disengaging himself from Miss Emmet, who had monopolized his arm, gathered -a rose—the only rose in bloom (it being early in the summer) and turning -back, offered it to Calantha. She felt confused—flattered perhaps; but -if she were flattered by his giving it to her, she had reason to be -mortified by the remark which accompanied the gift. “I offer it to you,” -he said, “because the rose at this season is rare, and all that is new -or rare has for a moment, I believe, some value in your estimation.” -She understood his meaning: her eye had been fixed upon him with more -than common interest; and all that others said and Miss Emmet affected, -he thought, perhaps, that she could feel. There was no proof she gave -of this, more unequivocal, than her silence. Her spirits were gone; a -strange fear of offending had come upon her; and when Lady Trelawney -rallied her for this change, “I am not well,” she said; “I wish I had -never come to Cork.” - -On the ensuing morning, they returned to Castle Delaval. Previous to -their departure, Admiral Buchanan had a long interview with Lady Margaret, -during which time Lord Glenarvon walked along the beach with Calantha and -Sophia. “Shall you be at Belfont again this year?” said Miss Seymour. “I -shall be at Castle Delaval in a few days,” he answered, smiling rather -archly at Calantha, she knew not wherefore. But she turned coldly from -him, as if fearing to meet his eyes. Yet not so was it her custom to -behave towards those whom she sought to please, and what woman upon -earth exists, who had not wished to please Glenarvon? Possibly she felt -offended at what he had said when giving her the rose in Donallan’s -gardens; or it may be that her mind, hitherto so enthusiastic, so readily -attracted, was grown callous and indifferent, and felt not those charms -and the splendour of those talents which dazzled and misled every other -heart. - -Yet is it unflattering to fly, to feel embarrassed, to scarcely dare -to look upon the person who addresses us? Is this so very marked a sign -of indifference? It is not probable that Lord Glenarvon thought so. He -appeared not to hate the being who was thus confused in his presence, -but to think that he felt what he inspired were presumption. With all -the wild eagerness of enthusiasm, her infatuated spirit felt what, with -all the art of well dissembled vanity, he feigned. She quitted him with -a strong feeling of interest. She, however, first heard him accept her -father’s invitation, and agree to accompany Sir George Buchanan in his -promised visit to Castle Delaval. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -On their return thither, they found the guests they had left in a -lamentable state of dullness. Lord Glenarvon was the first subject -of enquiry. Is he arrived?—have you seen him?—do you like him?—were -repeated on all sides. “Who?—who?” “There can be but one—Lord Glenarvon!” -“We all like him quite sufficiently be assured of that,” said Sophia, -glancing her eye somewhat sarcastically upon Calantha. “He is a very -strange personage,” said Lady Margaret. “My curiosity to see him had -been highly excited: I am now perfectly satisfied. He certainly has a -slight resemblance to his mother.” “He has the same winning smile,” said -Gondimar; “but there all comparison ceases.” “What says my Calantha?” said -Lady Mandeville, “does her silence denote praise?” “Oh! the greatest,” -she replied in haste, “I hope, my dear girls,” said Mrs. Seymour, rather -seriously addressing her daughters, “that you will neither of you form -any very marked intimacy with a person of so singular a character as is -this young lord. I was rather sorry when, by your letter, I found he -was invited here.” “Oh, there is no need of caution for us!” replied -Lady Trelawny, laughing: “perhaps others may need these counsels, but -not we: we are safe enough; are we not, Sophia?” - -Lord Glenarvon, the object of discussion, soon appeared at the castle, -to silence both praise and censure. There was a studied courtesy in his -manner—a proud humility, mingled with a certain cold reserve, which amazed -and repressed the enthusiasm his youth and misfortunes had excited. The -end was as usual:—all were immediately won by this unexpected manner:—some -more, some less, and Mrs. Seymour the last. But, to Calantha’s infinite -amusement, she heard her speaking in his defence a few hours after his -arrival; and the person she addressed, upon this occasion, was Sir Everard -St. Clare, who vehemently asseverated, though only in a whisper, that -the Duke must be mad to permit such a person to remain at the castle in -times like the present. - -Sir Everard then stated, that Lady St. Clare and her daughters were -returned to Belfont, and so eager to be again received into society, -that if they dared hope that any of the Duke’s family would accept their -invitation, they intended to give a concert on the night of the great -illumination for the Admiral’s arrival at Belfont. Mrs. Seymour smiled -in scorn; but Lady Margaret kindly promised to go there; and as soon as -Mrs. Seymour heard that it was merely in a political light they were -to countenance them, she was satisfied. For the present terror of all -the party, on the government side, was lest the rebels should get the -better, and murder them for their tenets. - -I will not say what Lord Glenarvon said to Calantha very shortly after -his arrival at the castle; it was not of a nature to repeat; it was made -up of a thousand nothings; yet they were so different from what others -had said: it shewed her a mark of preference; at least it seemed so; but -it was not a preference that could alarm the most wary, or offend the -most scrupulous. Such as it was, however, it flattered and it pleased; -it gave a new interest to her life, and obliterated from her memory -every long cherished feeling of bitterness or regret. - -It chanced one day, that, when seated at dinner, by Mrs. Seymour, to -whom he paid no little attention, he enquired of her concerning Mac -Allain, who waited upon that occasion behind the Duke’s chair. “Why looks -he so miserable?” he said. “Why turn his eyes so incessantly towards -Mr. Buchanan?” Mrs. Seymour hesitated, as if fearing to allude to a -transaction which she never thought of without horror and dislike; but -she no sooner pronounced the name of Mac Allain, than Lord Glenarvon’s -countenance altered: he started! and, watching Buchanan with a look of -loathing antipathy, exhibited such a variety of malevolent passions, in -the space of a few moments, that Sophia, who sat near Calantha on the -opposite side of the table, asked her, as she read countenances so well, -to tell her what her new friend’s expressed at that instant. She raised -her eyes; but met Glenarvon’s. He saw; he was the object of attention: -he smiled; and, the sweetness of that smile alone being considered: “I -know not,” she said, in some confusion; “but this I believe, that the -hand of Heaven never impressed on man a countenance so beautiful, so -glorious!” “Calantha!” said Sophia, looking at her. Calantha sighed. -“What is it even so?—Heaven defend us!” somewhat confused. Calantha -turned to the Count Gondimar; and, talking with affected spirits, soon -appeared to have forgotten both the smile and the sigh. - -“You once, when in London, gave me permission to warn you,” said the -Count, who observed every thing that was passing, “when I thought you in -danger. Now,” continued he,—“now is the moment. It was not when dancing -with Mr. Clarendon, or playing the coquette with Buchanan and the Duke -of Myrtlegrove, that I trembled for you. Lord Avondale was still dear, -even in those days—but now—O! the inconstancy of the human heart. You, -even you, are changed.” “Not me,” she replied; “but alas! that time is -arrived which you predicted: he cares no more for me; but I can never -forget him. See,” she continued, “how utterly indifferent he appears, -yet I would die for him.” “That will be of little service: you will -prove his ruin and misery. Mark my words, Lady Avondale; and, when too -late, remember what I have dared to say!” - -“Every woman complains,” she continued, smiling, “therefore, let me prove -an exception. I have no reproaches to make Lord Avondale; and, except in -your suspicious mind, there is no evil to apprehend.” “Tell me, candidly; -if the trial were made, if the hour of temptation were to come, could -you, do you think—could you have strength and courage to resist it?” -“Could I! Can you ask! It will not be accounted presumption to affirm, -that I feel secure. But possibly this arises from my conviction, that -there can be no temptation for me: I love my husband: there is no merit -then in being true to what we love.” - -As she yet spoke, Zerbellini approached and asked her, in Italian, to -read a note Lord Glenarvon had sent her. It was written with a pencil, -and contained but few words: it requested her to speak no more with the -Count Gondimar. He saw the manner in which the paper was delivered, and -guessed from whom it came. “I told you so,” he cried. “Alas! shall I -affect to offer you advice, when so many nearer and dearer friends are -silent—shall I pretend to greater wisdom—greater penetration? Is it not -inordinate vanity to hope, that any thing I can suggest will be of use?” -“Speak,” said Calantha; for the subject was interesting to her; “at all -events I shall not be offended.” “The serpent that is cherished in the -bosom,” said Gondimar, fiercely, “will bite with deadly venom—the flame -that brightly dazzles the little wanton butterfly, will destroy it. The -heart of a libertine is iron: it softens when heated with the fires of -lust; but it is cold and hard in itself. The whirlwinds of passions are -strong and irresistible; but when they subside, the calm of insensibility -will succeed. Remember the friend of thy youth; though he appear unkind, -his seeming neglect is better worth than the vows and adulation of all -beside. Oh! Lady Avondale, let one that is lovely, and blest as you are, -continue chaste even in thought.” - -Calantha looked up, and met Gondimar’s eyes: the fire in them convinced -her that love alone dictated this sage advice; and none ever can conceive -how much that feeling had been encreased by thus seeing a rival before -him, whom he could not hope to render odious or ridiculous. - -That day Lord Glenarvon had passed at the castle. On the following, he -took his leave. The Duke appeared desirous of conciliating him; Lady -Margaret was more than ordinarily brilliant and agreeable; Mrs. Seymour -relaxed something of her frigidity; and the rest of the ladies were -enthusiastic in their admiration. - -Calantha spoke much and often apart with Gondimar. Every thought of -her heart seemed concentrated on the sudden in one dark interest; yet -it was not love that she felt: it could not be. By day, by night, one -image pursued her; yet to save, to reclaim, to lead back from crime -to virtue—from misery to peace, was, as she then apprehended, her sole -desire. Were not all around alike infatuated? Was not the idol of her -fancy a being to whom all alike paid the insense of flattery—the most -lowly—the most abject? - -“Let them pursue,” she cried; “let them follow after, and be favoured -in turn. I alone, self-exiled, will fly, will hide myself beneath every -concealment. He shall hear their words, and believe in their adulation; -but never, whilst existence is allowed me, shall he know the interest -with which he has inspired me.” Resolved upon this, and dreading her own -thoughts, she danced, she rode, she sang, she talked to every one, sought -every amusement, and seemed alone to dread one instant of repose—one -single moment of time devoted to self examination and reflection. -Ceaseless hurry, joyless mirth, endless desire of amusement varied the -days as they flitted by. “Oh, pause to reflect!” said Gondimar. But it -was vain: new scenes of interest succeeded each other; till suddenly -she started as if shuddering on the very edge of perdition, in the dark -labyrinth of sin—on the fathomless chasm which opened before her feet. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Lord Glenarvon was now considered as a favoured guest at the castle. -He came—he went, as it suited his convenience or his humour.—But every -time he appeared, the secret interest he had excited, was strengthened; -and every time he went, he left apparently deeper marks of regret. - -Sir Richard Mowbrey and Sir George Buchanan, were at this time also at -the castle. Sir Everard, forgetful of his wrongs, and his Lady of her -projects for the emancipation of her countrymen, kept open house during -their stay; Lady St. Clare, in pursuance of her plan of restoring herself -to society, assisted herself with her daughters, at a concert in the great -assembly rooms at Belfont, given in honour of the Admiral’s arrival. On -this eventful evening, the whole party at the castle resolved to make a -most wonderful _éclat_, by their brilliant appearance and condescension. -The Duke addressed himself to every individual with his accustomed -affability. Lord Avondale attended solely to his Uncle, who amused -himself by walking up and down that part of the room which was prepared -for the dancers, bowing to all, shaking hands with all, and receiving -those compliments which his brave conduct deserved. Pale, trembling, and -scarcely heeding the scene, Calantha watched with breathless anxiety for -one alone; and that one, for what cause she knew not, spoke not to her. - -“Where is he?”—“which is he?”—Was whispered now from mouth to mouth. -The Admiral, the Duke, the concert were forgotten. One object appeared -suddenly to engage the most boundless curiosity. “Is that really Lord -Glenarvon?” Said a pretty little woman pushing her way towards him. “Oh -let me but have the happiness of speaking one word to him:—let me but say, -when I return to my home, that I have seen him, and I shall be overjoyed.” -Calantha made room for the enthusiastic Lady:—she approached—she offered -her hand to the deliverer of his Country as she called him:—he accepted it -with grace, but some embarrassment. The rush was then general: everyone -would see—would speak to their Lord—their King; and the fashionable -reserve which affectation had, for a moment, taught the good people of -Belfont to assume, soon vanished, when nature spoke in their bosoms: so -that had not the performers of the grand _concerto_ called to order, Lord -Glenarvon had been absolutely obliged to make his retreat. The mystery in -which his fate appeared involved, his youth, his misfortunes, his brave -conduct, and perhaps even his errors awakened this interest in such as -beheld him. But he turned from the gaze of strangers with bitterness. - -“Will you allow me to seat myself near you?” he said, approaching -Calantha’s chair. “Can you ask?” “Without asking, I would not. You may -possibly stay till late: I shall go early. My only inducement in coming -here was you.” “Was me! Do not say, what I am well assured is not true.” -“I never say what I do not feel. Your presence here alone makes me endure -all this fulsome flattery, noise, display. If you dance—that is, when -you dance, I shall retire.” - -The concert now began with frequent bursts of applause. All were -silent:—suddenly a general murmur proclaimed some new and unexpected -event:—a young performer appeared. Was it a boy! Such grace—such -beauty, soon betrayed her: it was Miss St. Clare. She could not hope -for admittance in her own character; yet, under a feigned name, she had -promised to assist at the performance; and the known popularity of her -songs, and the superior sweetness of her voice, prevented the professors -from enquiring too much into the propriety of such an arrangement. - -Messieurs John Maclane and Creighton had just been singing in Italian, -an opera buffa. The noise they had made was such, that even the most -courteous had been much discountenanced. A moment’s pause ensued; when, -without one blush of modest diffidence, but, on the contrary, with an -air of dauntless and even contemptuous effrontery, the youthful performer -seized her harp—Glenarvon’s harp—and singing, whilst her dark brilliant -eyes were fixed upon him alone, she gave vent to the emotions of her -own bosom, and drew tears of sympathy from many another. The words were -evidently made at the moment; and breathed from the heart. She studied -not the composition, but the air was popular, and for that cause it had -effect. - -The admiration for the young enthusiast was checked by the extreme -disgust her shameless ill conduct had occasioned. The tears, too, of Sir -Everard, who was present, and audibly called upon his cruel ungrateful -niece, extorted a stronger feeling of sympathy than her lawless and guilty -love. She retired the moment she had ended her song, and the commotion -her presence had excited subsided with her departure. - -The heiress of Delaval, decked in splendid jewels, had not lost by -comparison with the deserted Elinor. She was the reigning favourite of -the moment: every one observed it, and smiled upon her the more on that -account. To be the favourite of the favoured was too much. The adulation -paid to her during the evening; and the caresses lavished upon her had -possibly turned a wiser head than her’s; but alas! a deeper interest -employed her thoughts, and Glenarvon’s attention was her sole object. - -Calantha had felt agitated and serious during Miss St. Clare’s -performance. Lord Glenarvon had conversed with his customary ease; yet -something had wounded her. Perhaps she saw, in the gaze of strangers, -that this extreme and sudden intimacy was observed; or possibly her heart -reproached her. She felt that not vanity alone, nor even enthusiasm, -was the cause of her present emotion. She knew not, nor could imagine -the cause; but, with seeming inconsistency, after refusing positively -to dance, she sent for Buchanan and joined in that delectable amusement; -and, as if the desire of exercise had superseded every other, she danced -on with an energy and perseverance, which excited the warmest approbation -in all. “What spirits Lady Avondale has!” said one. “How charming she -is!” cried another. She herself only sighed. - -“Have you ever read a tragedy of Ford’s?” whispered Lady Augusta to -Calantha, as soon as she had ceased to exhibit—“a tragedy entitled _The -Broken Heart_.” “No,” she replied, half vexed, half offended. “At this -moment you put me vastly in mind of it. You look most woefully. Come, -tell me truly, is not your heart in torture? and, like your namesake -Calantha, while lightly dancing the gayest in the ring, has not the shaft -already been struck, and shall you not die ere you attain the goal?” -She indeed felt nearly ready to do so; and fanning herself excessively, -declared, that it was dreadfully hot—that she should absolutely expire -of the heat: yet while talking and laughing with those who surrounded -her, her eye looked cautiously round, eager to behold the resentment and -expected frowns of him whom she had sought to offend; but there was no -frown on Lord Glenarvon’s brow—no look of resentment. - -“And are you happy?” he said, approaching her with gentleness. “Perhaps -so, since some can rejoice in the sufferings of others. Yet I forgive -you, because I know you are not yourself. I see you are acting from -pique; but you have no cause; for did you know my heart, and could you -feel what it suffers on your account, your doubts would give way to far -more alarming suspicions.” He paused, for she turned abruptly from him. -“Dance on then, Lady Avondale,” he continued, “the admiration of those -for whose society you were formed—the easy prey of every coxcomb to whom -that ready hand is so continually offered, and which I have never once -dared to approach. Such is the respect which will ever be shewn to the -object of real admiration, interest and regard, although that object -seems willing to forget that it is her due. But,” added he, assuming that -air of gaiety he had one moment laid aside, “I detain you, do I not? See -Colonel Donallan and the Italian Count await you.” “You mistake me,” she -said gravely; “I could not presume to imagine that my dancing would be -heeded by you:—I could have no motive——” “None but the dear delight of -tormenting,” said he, “which gave a surprising elasticity to your step, -I can assure you. Indubitably had not that impulse assisted, you could -not thus have excelled yourself.” “If you knew,” she said, “what I suffer -at this moment you would spare me. Why do you deride me?” “Because, oh -Lady Avondale, I dare not—I cannot speak to you more seriously. I feel -that I have no right—no claim on you. I dread offending; but to-morrow -I shall expiate all; for I leave you to-morrow.—Yes, it must be so. I -am going from Ireland. Indeed I was going before I had the misery of -believing that I should leave any thing in it I could ever regret.” What -Calantha felt, when he said this, cannot be described. - -“Will you dance the two next dances with me?” said Colonel Donallan, now -approaching. “I am tired: will you excuse me? I believe our carriages -are ordered.” “Oh surely you will not go away before supper.” “Ask -Lady Mandeville what she means to do.” “Lady Trelawney and Miss Seymour -stay.” “Then perhaps I shall.” The Colonel bowed and retired.—“Give me -the rose you wear,” said Glenarvon in a low voice, “in return for the -one I presented you at Donallan Park.” “Must I?” “You must,” said he, -smiling. With some hesitation, she obeyed; yet she looked around in -hopes no vigilant eye might observe her. She took it from her bosom, -and gave it tremblingly into his hands. A large pier glass reflected -the scene to the whole company. The rose thus given, was received with -transport. It said more, thus offered, than a thousand words:—it was -taken and pressed to a lover’s lips, till all its blushing beauties were -gone, then it was cast down on the earth to be trampled upon by many. -And had Calantha wished it, she might have read in the history of the -flower, the fate that ever attends on guilty love. - -And was it love she felt so soon—so strongly!—It is not possible. -Alarmed, grieved, flattered at his altered manner, she turned aside to -conceal the violent, the undefinable emotions, to which she had become -a prey:—a dream of ecstasy for one moment fluttered in her heart; but -the recollection of Lord Avondale recurring, she started with horror -from herself—from him; and, abruptly taking leave, retired. - -“Are you going?” said Glenarvon. “I am ill,” she answered. “Will you -suffer me to accompany you?” he said, as he assisted her into her -carriage; “or possibly it is not the custom in this country:—you mistrust -me—you think it wrong.”—“No,” she answered with embarrassment; and he -seated himself by her side. The distance to the castle was short. Lord -Glenarvon was more respectful, more reserved, more silent than before -he had entered the carriage. On quitting it alone, he pressed her hand -to his heart, and bade her feel for the agony she had implanted there. -None, perhaps, ever before felt what she did at this instant.... - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -If any indifferent person approach us, it either is disagreeable, or at -least unimportant; but when it is a person we love, it thrills through -the heart, and we are unable to speak or to think. Could she have -imagined, that Lord Glenarvon felt for her, she had been lost. But that -was impossible; and yet his manner;—it was so marked, there could be -no doubt. She was inexperienced, we may add, innocent; though no doubt -sufficiently prepared to become every thing that was the reverse. Yet -in a moment she felt her own danger, and resolved to guard against it. -How then can so many affirm, when they know that they are loved, that -it is a mere harmless friendship! how can they, in palliation of their -errors, bring forward the perpetually repeated excuse, that they were -beguiled! The heart that is chaste and pure will shrink the soonest -from the very feeling that would pollute it:—in vain it would attempt -to deceive itself: the very moment we love, or are loved, something -within us points out the danger:—even when we fly from him, to whom -we could attach ourselves, we feel a certain embarrassment—an emotion, -which is not to be mistaken; and, in a lover’s looks, are there not a -thousand assurances and confessions which no denial of words can affect -to disguise? - -Lord Glenarvon had denied to Calantha the possibility of his ever again -feeling attachment. This had not deceived her; but she was herself too -deeply and suddenly struck to the heart to venture to hope for a return. -Besides, she did not think of this as possible:—he seemed to her so -far above her—so far above everything. She considered him as entirely -different from all others; and, if not superior, at least dissimilar -and consequently not to be judged of by the same criterion. - -It is difficult to explain Calantha’s peculiar situation with respect -to Lord Avondale. Yet it is necessary briefly to state in what manner -they were situated at this particular period; for otherwise, all that is -related must appear like a mere fable, improbable and false. They were -dearer to each other perhaps, than any two who had been so long united in -marriage. They loved each other with more passion, more enthusiasm than -is often retained; but they were, from a thousand circumstances, utterly -estranged at this time; and that apparently by mutual consent—like two -violent spirits which had fretted and chafed and opposed each other, -till both were sore and irritated. - -In the course of years, they had said every thing that was most galling -and bitter; and though the ardent attachment they really felt, had -ever followed those momentary bursts of fury, the veil had been torn -aside—that courtesy, which none should ever suffer themselves to forget, -had been broken through, and they had yielded too frequently to the -sudden impulse of passion, ever to feel secure that the ensuing moment -might not produce a scene of discord. - -A calm, a deliberate tyrant, had vanquished Calantha; a violent one -could not. When provoked, Lord Avondale was too severe; and when he saw -her miserable and oppressed, it gave him more suffering than if he had -himself been subdued. There are few spirits which cannot be overcome -if dexterously attacked; but with the fierce and daring, force and -violence will generally be found useless. It should be remembered that, -like madness, these disturbed characters see not things as they are; -and, like martyrs and fanatics, they attach a degree of glory to every -privation and punishment in the noble cause of opposition to what they -conceive is unjust authority. Such a character is open and guileless; -but unhappily, the very circumstance that makes it sincere, renders it -also, if misturned, desperate and hardened. - -During the first years of their marriage, these tumultuous scenes but -strengthened the attachment they felt for each other; but when Lord -Avondale’s profession absorbed his mind, he dreaded a recurrence of what -had once so fully engrossed his thoughts. He left Calantha, therefore, -to the guidance of that will, which she had so long and pertinaciously -indulged. Absent, pre-occupied, he saw not, he heard not, the misuse -she made of her entire liberty. Some trifle, perhaps, at times, reached -his ear; a scene of discord ensued; much bitterness on both sides -followed: and the conviction that they no longer loved each other, added -considerably to the violence of recrimination. They knew not how deeply -rooted affection such as they had once felt, must ever be—how the very -ties that compelled them to belong to each other, strengthened, in fact, -the attachment which inclination and love had first inspired; but, with -all the petulance and violence of character natural to each, they fled -estranged and offended from each other’s society. - -Lord Avondale sought, in an active and manly profession, for some -newer interest, in which every feeling of ambition could have part; and -she, surrendering her soul to the illusive dream of a mad and guilty -attachment, boasted that she had found again the happiness she had lost; -and contrasted even the indifference of her husband, to the ardour, the -devotion, the refined attention of a newly acquired friend. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -O better had it been to die than to see and hear Glenarvon. When he -smiled, it was like the light radiance of heaven; and when he spoke, his -voice was more soothing in its sweetness than music. He was so gentle -in his manners, that it was in vain even to affect to be offended; and, -though he said he never again could love, he would describe how some had -died, and others maddened, under the power of that fierce passion—how -every tie that binds us, and every principle and law, must be broken -through, as secondary considerations, by its victims:—he would speak -home to the heart; for he knew it in all its turnings and windings; and, -at his will, he could rouze or tame the varying passions of those over -whom he sought to exercise dominion. Yet, when by every art and talent -he had raised the scorching flames of love, tearing himself from his -victim, he would leave her, then weep for the agony of grief by which -he saw her destroyed. - -Had he betrayed in his manner to Calantha that freedom, that familiarity -so offensive in men, but yet so frequent amongst them, she would yet -have shuddered. But what was she to fly? Not from the gross adulation, -or the easy flippant protestations to which all women are soon or late -accustomed; but from a respect, at once refined and flattering—an -attention devoted even to her least wishes, yet without appearing -subservient—a gentleness and sweetness, as rare as they were fascinating; -and these combined with all the powers of imagination, vigour of -intellect, and brilliancy of wit, which none ever before possessed in -so eminent a degree; and none ever since have even presumed to rival. -Could she fly from a being unlike all others—sought for by every one, -yet, by his own confession, wholly and entirely devoted to herself. - -How cold, compared with Glenarvon was the regard her family and friends -affected! Was it confidence in her honour, or indifference? Lord Glenarvon -asked Calantha repeatedly, which it most resembled—he appealed to her -vanity even, whether strong affection could thus neglect and leave the -object of its solicitude? Yet, had she done nothing to chill a husband -and parent’s affection—had she not herself lessened the regard they had -so faithfully cherished? - -Calantha thought she had sufficient honour and spirit to tell her husband -at once the danger to which she was exposed; but when she considered -more seriously her situation, it appeared to her almost ridiculous to -fancy that it was so imminent. If upon some occasion, Lord Glenarvon’s -manner was ardent, the ensuing morning she found him cold, distant and -pre-occupied, and she felt ashamed of the weakness which for one moment -could have made her imagine she was the object of his thoughts. Indeed, -he often took an opportunity of stating, generally, that he never could -feel either interest or love for any thing on earth; that once he had -felt too deeply and had suffered bitterly from it; and that now his sole -regret was in the certainty that he never again could be so deceived. - -He spoke with decision of leaving Ireland, and more than once repeated, -emphatically to the Duke, “I shall never forget the kindness which -prompted you to seek me out, when under very unpleasant circumstances; I -shall immediately withdraw my name from the club; my sentiments I cannot -change: but you have already convinced me of the folly of spreading them -amongst the unenlightened multitude.” - -Sir Everard, who was present, lifted up his hands at such discourse. “He -is a convert of mine, I verily believe,” he cried; “and Elinor”—“Miss -St. Clare,” whispered Glenarvon, turning to the Doctor, “has long been -admonished by me, to return to an indulgent uncle, and throw herself -on your mercy.” “My mercy!” said Sir Everard, bursting into tears,—“my -gratitude. Oh! my child, my darling.” “And believe me,” continued Lord -Glenarvon, with an air which seemed haughtily to claim belief, “I return -her as innocent as she came to me. Her imagination may have bewildered -and beguiled her; but her principles are uncorrupted.” “Generous young -nobleman!” exclaimed Sir Everard, ready to kneel before him—“noble, -mighty, grand young gentleman! wonder of our age!” Lord Glenarvon -literally smiled through his tears; for the ridicule of Sir Everard did -not prevent his excellent and warm feelings from affecting those who -knew him well. “And will she return to her poor uncle?” “I know not,” -said Lord Glenarvon, gravely: “I fear not; but I have even implored her -to do so.” “Oh, if you fail who are so fair and so persuasive, who can -hope to move her?” “She may hear a parent’s voice,” said Glenarvon, “even -though deaf to a lover’s prayer.” “And are you indeed a lover to my poor -deluded Elinor?” “I was,” said Lord Glenarvon, proudly; “but her strange -conduct, and stubborn spirit have most effectually cured me; and I must -own, Sir Everard, I do not think I ever again can even affect a feeling -of that sort: after all, it is a useless way of passing life.” “You are -right,” said the Doctor; “quite right; and it injures the health; there -is nothing creates bile, and hurts the constitution more, than suspense -and fretting:—I know it by myself.” - -They were standing in the library during this discourse. Lady Avondale -entered now; Lord Glenarvon approached her. They were for a few moments -alone:—he lent over her; she held a book in her hand; he read a few -lines: it is not possible to describe how well he read them. The poetry he -read was beautiful as his own: it affected him. He read more; he became -animated; Calantha looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he forgot the -poem; his hand touched hers, as he replaced the book before her; she drew -away her hand; he took it and put it to his lips. “Pardon me,” he said, -“I am miserable: but I will never injure you. Fly me, Lady Avondale: -I deserve not either interest or regard; and to look upon me is in -itself pollution to one like you.” He then said a few words expressive -of his admiration for her husband:—“He is as superior to me,” he said, -“as Hyperion to a satyr:—and you love him, do you not?” continued he, -smiling. “Can you ask?” “He seems most attached, too, to you.” “Far, -far more than I deserve.” - -“I can never love again,” said Glenarvon, still holding her hand: “never. -There will be no danger in my friendship,” he said after a moment’s -thought: “none; for I am cold as the grave—as death; and all here,” he -said pressing her hand upon his heart, “is chilled, lost, absorbed. They -will speak ill of me,” he continued rather mournfully; “and you will -learn to hate me.” “I! never, never. I will defend you, if abused; I -will hate those who hate you; I—” He smiled: “How infatuated you are,” -he said, “poor little thing that seeks to destroy itself. Have you not -then heard what I have done?” “I have heard much” said Calantha, “but -I know—I feel it is false.” “It is all too true,” said Lord Glenarvon -carelessly:—“all quite true; and there is much worse yet:”—“But it is -no matter,” he continued; “the never dying worm feeds upon my heart: I -am like death, Lady Avondale; and all beneath is seared.” - -Whilst the conscience wakes, and the blush of confused and trembling guilt -yet varies the complexion, the sin is not of long standing, or of deep -root; but when the mind seeks to disguise from itself its danger,—when, -playing upon the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly deludes -itself, and appears hard and callous to every admonitory caution, then is -the moment for alarm; and that moment now appeared to realize Calantha’s -fears. - -Attacked with some asperity by her numerous friends, for her imprudent -conduct, she now boldly avowed her friendship for Glenarvon, and -disclaimed the possibility of its exceeding the bounds which the strictest -propriety had rendered necessary. She even gloried in his attachment; -and said that there was not one of those who were admonishing her to -beware who would not readily, nay, even gladly fill her place. Calantha -had seen their letters to him: she had marked their advances—too fatal -symptom of the maddening disease! she really imagined that all others -like herself, were enamoured with the same idol; and in this instance -she was right:—the infatuation was general: he was termed the leader of -the people, the liberator of his country, the defender of the rights -of Ireland. If he wandered forth through Belfont, he was followed by -admiring crowds; and whilst he affected to disdain the transient homage, -she could not but perceive that he lost no opportunity by every petty -artifice of encreasing the illusion. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -At this crisis the whole party at the castle were disturbed by the -unexpected arrival of the Princess of Madagascar at Dublin. A small fleet -had been seen approaching the coast: it was rumoured that the French -in open boats were preparing to invade Ireland; but it proved, though -it may sound rather ludicrous to say so, only the great Nabob and the -Princess of Madagascar. Their immense retinue and baggage, which the -common people took for the heavy artillery, arrived without incident -or accident at Belfont; and the couriers having prepared the Duke for -the reception of his illustrious guest, they awaited her arrival with -considerable impatience. - -During the bustle and noise this little event occasioned, Lord Glenarvon -came to Lady Avondale and whispered in her ear, “I shall walk this -evening: contrive to do so as I have something of importance to tell -you.” As he spoke, he pretended to pick up a ring. “Is this yours?” he -said. “No.” “It is,” he whispered; and placed it himself upon her finger. -It was an emerald with an harp engraved upon it—the armorial bearing -of Ireland: “let us be firm and united,” was written under. “I mean it -merely politically,” he said smiling. “Even were you a Clarissa, you -need not be alarmed: I am no Lovelace, I promise you.” - -The princess was now announced, fifty-three attendants and twenty-four -domestic friends, were her small and concientious establishment, besides -a cook, confectioner and laundress, to the total discomfiture of Irish -hospitality. The high priest in the dress of the greek church, ever -attended her, and eagerly sought to gain adherents to the only true -established church, at whatever house he occasionally rested. The -simplicity of Hoiouskim, his eagerness, his abilities and information, -added an agreeable variety at Castle Delaval. - -But neither the presence of the Nabob nor the caresses of the princess -who cast many a gentle glance upon Glenarvon could for one moment detach -his thoughts from Calantha. On the contrary he answered her with distant -reserve and appeared eager to shew to every one the marked distinction -he felt for the woman he loved. Oh! he is really sincere, she thought -as he left them all to attend to her. “I amuse—I soothe him,” the hope -rendered her blest and she felt indifferent to every consequence. - -“You are not as pretty as Sophia,” said Glenarvon looking on her; “but -I admire you more. Your errors are such as you have frankly confessed; -but you have others which you wished me not to perceive. Few have so -many faults, yet how is it that you have wound yourself already around -this cold, this selfish heart, which had resolved never again to admit -any. You love your husband Lady Avondale: I respect you too well to -attempt to change your affection; but if I wished it, your eyes already -tell me what power I have gained:—I could do what I would.” “No, no,” -she answered. “You are too vain.” “None ever yet resisted me,” said -Glenarvon, “do you think you could?” Calantha scarce knew how to answer; -but while she assured him she could resist any one and had no fear for -herself, she felt the contrary; and trembled with mixed apprehensions of -joy and sorrow at her boast—when others approached, he did not change: -his manner to Calantha: he discontinued his conversation; but he still -looked the same: he was not fearful as some would have been, or servile, -or full of what might be said:—he seemed in all respects careless or -desperate. He laughed, but his laugh was not the heart’s laugh: his wit -enlivened and dazzled others; but it seemed not the effect of exuberant -spirits. - -It was not unfrequently the custom at Castle Delaval, during the fine -summer evenings, to walk after dinner, before cards or music. The flower -gardens, and shrubbery were the most usual places of resort. Lady Augusta -smilingly observed to Lady Mandeville and Sophia, that, for some evenings -past, Lady Avondale had taken more extensive rambles, and that Lord -Glenarvon and she were oftentimes absent till supper was announced. The -Count Gondimar, who overheard the remark, affected to think it malignant, -and asked with a sarcastic sneer, whether Lord Avondale were with her -on these evening excursions? “Little Mowbray seems a great favourite of -Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Lady Augusta; “but I do not fancy his father is -often of the party, or that his being Lady Avondale’s child is the cause -of it: the boy has a sprightly wit. We must not draw unfair conclusions: -last year Mr. Buchanan gave us alarm; and now, it is quite natural we -should all fall in love with Lord Glenarvon. I have myself; only he -will not return my advances. Did you observe what an eye I made him at -breakfast?... but that never was a love making meal. Place me but near -him at supper, and you shall see what I can do.” - -Gondimar suddenly left Lady Augusta, who was walking on the terrace. He -had caught a glimpse of Calantha as she wandered slowly by the banks of -Elle:—he hastened to the spot; he saw her; he penetrated her feelings; -and he returned thoughtful and irritated to the Castle. Snatching a pen, -he wrote for some time. Lady Trelawney and Lady Augusta, observing him, -approached and insisted upon being made acquainted with his studies. -“It is an ode you are inditing, I am certain,” said the latter, “I saw -you struck by the God as you darted from me.” “You are right,” cried -Gondimar, “I am composing a song.” “In English too, I perceive.” “What, -if it be English? you know one of my talents, can write even in that -d——d language: so criticise my rhapsody if you dare. At all events, Lady -Avondale will admire it; for it is about a rose and love—most sentimental. -And where is she? for till her return, I will not shew it you.” - -If that question, where is Lady Avondale? must be answered, it is with -sorrow and regret that such answer will be made:—she was walking slowly, -as Gondimar had seen her, by the banks of the river Elle: she was silent, -too, and mournful; her spirits were gone; her air was that of one who -is deeply interested in all she hears. She was not alone—Lord Glenarvon -was by her side. It was their custom thus to walk: they met daily; they -took every opportunity of meeting; and when in their morning and evening -rambles she pointed out the beautiful views around, the ranging mountains, -and the distant ocean,—he would describe, in glowing language, the far -more magnificent and romantic scenery of the countries through which he -had passed—countries teaming with rich fruits, vinyards and olive groves; -luxuriant vales and mountains, soaring above the clouds, whose summits -were white with snow, while a rich and ceaseless vegetation adorned the -valleys beneath. He told her that he hated these cold northern climes, -and the bottle green of the Atlantic;—that could she see the dark blue -of the Mediterranean, whose clear wave reflected the cloudless sky, she -would never be able to endure those scenes in which she now took such -delight. And soon those scenes lost all their charms for Calantha; for -that peace of mind which gave them charms was fast departing; and she -sighed for that beautiful land to which his thoughts reverted, and those -Italian climes, to which he said, he so soon must return. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -It was upon this, evening, that, having walked for a considerable time -Lady Avondale felt fatigued and rested for a moment near the banks of -Elle. She pointed to the roses which grew luxuriantly around. “They -are no longer rare,” she said alluding to the one he had given her upon -their first acquaintance at Donallan: “but are they the less prized?” He -understood her allusion, and pulling a bud from the mossy bank on which -it grew, he kissed it, and putting it gently to her lips asked her, if -the perfume were sweet, and which she preferred of the two roses which -he had offered her? She knew not what she answered; and she afterwards -wished she could forget what she had then felt. - -Gondimar passed by them at that moment:—He observed her confusion; he -retired as if fearful of encreasing it; and, but too conscious that such -conversation was wrong, Calantha attempted once to change it. “I will -shew you the new lodge,” she said turning up a large gravel walk, out of -the shrubbery. “Shew me!” Glenarvon answered smiling. “Trust me, I know -every lodge and walk here better than yourself;” and he amused himself -with her surprise. Some thought, however, occurred, which checked his -merriment—some remembrances made this boast of his acquaintance with -the place painful to him. There was one, whom he had formerly seen and -admired, who was no longer present and whom every one but himself appeared -to have forgotten—one who lovely in the first bloom of spotless youth; -had felt for him all that even his heart could require. She was lost—he -should never see her more. - -A momentary gloom darkened his countenance at this recollection. He -looked upon Calantha and she trembled; for his manner was much altered. -Her cheeks kindled as he spoke:—her eye dared no longer encounter his. -If she looked up for a moment, she withdrew in haste, unable to sustain -the ardent glance: her step tremblingly advanced, lingering, but yet not -willingly retreating. Her heart beat in tumult, or swelled with passion, -as he whispered to her that, which she ought never to have heard. She -hastened towards the castle:—he did not attempt to detain her. - -It was late: the rest of the company were gone home. Thither she hastened; -and hurrying to the most crowded part of the room, flushed with her -walk, she complained of the heat, and thought that every eye was fixed -upon her with looks of strong disapprobation. Was it indeed so? or was -it a guilty conscience which made her think so? - -Lady Mandeville, observing her distress, informed her that Count Gondimar, -had been composing a song, but would not sing it till she was present. -She eagerly desired to hear it. “It is about a rose,” said Gondimar, -significantly glancing his eye upon the one in Calantha’s bosom. The -colour in her cheeks became redder far than the rose. “Sing it,” she -said, “or rather let me read it ... or ... but wherefore are you not -dancing, or at billiards? How dull it must be for Clara and Charlotte” -(these were two of Lady Mandeville’s children). “You never thought of -Lady Mandeville’s beautiful children, and our state of dullness, while -you were walking,” cried Lady Augusta, “and last night you recollect that -when you made every one dance, you sat apart indulging vain phantasies -and idle reveries. However, they are all gone into the ball-room, if -dancing is the order of the night; but as for me, I shall not stir from -this spot, till I hear Count Gondimar’s song.” - -“I will sing it you, Lady Avondale,” said the Count, smiling at her -distress, “the first evening that you remain at your balcony alone, -watching the clouds as they flit across the moon, and listening, I -conclude, to the strains of the nightingale.” “Then,” she said, affecting -unconcern, “I claim your promise for to-morrow night, punctually at -nine.” He approached the piano-forte. “Ah not now—I am engaged,—I must -dance.” “Now or never,” said the Count. “Never then, never,” she answered, -almost crying, though she affected to laugh. Lady Augusta entreated for -the song, and the Count, after a short prelude, placed the manuscript -paper before him, and in a low tone of voice began:— - -(To the air of “_Ils ne sont plus_.”) - - Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing, - Smooth and untroubled, through the flow’ry vale: - O’er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing, - Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale. - - Here ’twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing, - One still too dear, first breath’d his vows to thee: - Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing, - Near to thy heart, in memory of me. - - Love’s cherished gift, the rose he gave, is faded; - Love’s blighted flower, can never bloom again. - Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded: - Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain. - - Call back the vows, that once to heaven were plighted, - Vows full of love, of innocence and truth. - Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted: - Call back the dream that blest thy early youth. - - Flow silver stream, tho’ threatening tempests lower, - Bright, mild and clear, thy gentle waters flow; - Round thy green banks, the spring’s young blossoms flower; - O’er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow. - - —Yet, all in vain; for never spring arraying - Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair. - Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtraying - Years past of bliss, and future of despair. - - [Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.] - -Gondimar seemed affected whilst he sung; and Calantha felt nearly -suffocated with every sort of feeling. Lady Augusta pretended not to -understand it, and hastened with Calantha into the adjoining room. Lord -Glenarvon followed and approached Lady Avondale: “Remember me in your -prayers, my gentlest friend,” he whispered. “Even in the still night let -some remembrance of Glenarvon occur. Think of me, for I am jealous even -of thy dreams.” The angry glance of Gondimar interrupted the conference. - -Calantha could not sleep that night. A thousand fears and hopes rushed -upon her mind. She retired to her room: at one time seized a pen, and -wrote, in all the agony of despair, a full confession of her guilty -feelings to her husband; the next she tore the dreadful testimony of her -erring heart, and addressed herself to heaven for mercy. But vain the -struggle. From childhood’s earliest day she never had refused herself -one wish, one prayer. She knew not on the sudden how to curb the fierce -and maddening fever that raged within. “I am lost,” she cried, “I love—I -worship. To live without him will be death—worse, worse than death. One -look, one smile from Glenarvon, is dearer than aught else that heaven -has to offer. Then let me not attempt, what I have not power to effect. -Oh, as his friend, let me still behold him. His love, some happier, some -better heart shall possess.” Again she started with horror from herself. -“His love!” she cried, “and can I think of him in so criminal—so guilty -a manner! I who am a wife, and more—a mother! Let me crush such feelings -even now in their birth. Let me fly him, whilst yet it is possible; nor -imagine the grief, he says my absence will cause, can exceed the misery -my dishonourable attachment will bring upon both! And did he dare to tell -me that he loved me? Was not this in itself a proof that he esteemed me -no longer? Miserable, wretched Calantha; where shall I fly to hide my -shame? How conceal from a lover’s searching eyes that he is too dear?” - -With such thoughts she attempted to close her eyes; but dreadful dreams -disturbed her fancy; and the image of Glenarvon pursued her even in sleep. -She saw him—not kneeling at her feet, in all the impassioned transports -of love; not radiant with hope, nor even mournful with despondency and -fear; but pale, deadly, and cold: his hand was ice, and as he placed it -upon hers, she shrunk as from the grasp of death, and awoke oppressed -with terror. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -No one had apparently observed Lady Avondale’s feigned indisposition -that evening—feigned, indeed, it was not; no one soothed her during her -sleepless night; and in the morning when she awoke, at an early hour, -Lord Avondale asked her not the cause of her disquiet. She arose and -descended upon the terrace:—her steps involuntarily led her to the banks -of the Elle. The flowers, fresh with dew, sparkled in the sunshine, and -scented the soft morning air. She hurried on, regardless of the distance. -The rose he had given her was faded; but its leaves were preserved by -her with fondest care. - -Whilst yet she walked, at a little distance she perceived Gondimar, -and was in consequence preparing to return, when he abruptly accosted -her; and with a manner too little respectful, rudely seized her hand. -“Have you not slept?” he cried, “my charming, my adored young friend, -that you are thus early in your walk; or did you imagine that others, -beside myself would wander upon these banks, and await your fairy step? -O suffer one who admires—who loves, to open his heart to you—to seize -this opportunity.” ... “Leave me—approach me not. What have I done to -deserve this from you?” she exclaimed. “Why seize my hand by force? -Why press it—oh God! to those detested lips? Leave me, Count Gondimar: -forget not the respect due to every woman.” “Of virtue!” he replied, -with a scornful smile. “But tell me, has Lady Avondale never suffered -such insults from some who have no better claim? Has she still a right -to this amazing mockery of respect? Ah! trust me, we cannot command our -love.” “Neither can we command our abhorrence—our disgust,” she exclaimed, -breaking from his grasp and hastening away. - -As Calantha re-entered the Castle, she met Lady Margaret and Glenarvon, -who appeared surprised and disconcerted at seeing her. “Has Count -Gondimar been speaking to you upon any subject of importance?” said -Lady Margaret in a whisper, trying to conceal a look of suspicion, and -some embarrassment. Before Calantha could answer, he had joined them; -and explaining fully that their meeting had been entirely accidental, -they both walked off together apparently in earnest discourse, leaving -Lord Glenarvon and Lady Avondale together. Calantha’s heart was full, -she could not speak, she therefore left him in haste and when alone she -wept. Had she not reason; for every indignity and grief was falling fast -upon her. She could not tell what had occurred to Lord Avondale—he had a -fierce and dangerous spirit; and to Glenarvon she would not, upon every -account. Glenarvon awaited her return with anxiety. “I was surprised -to see you with my aunt,” she said, “what could you be saying to her.” -He evaded the question, and tenderly enquired of her the cause of her -uneasiness and tears. He loved beyond a doubt—at least he convinced -Calantha that he did so. - -Confused, perturbed, she, more than ever felt the danger of her situation: -trembling she met his eyes, fearing lest he should penetrate her secret. -Confident in her own strength: “I will fly,” she said “though it be to -the utmost extremity of the earth; but I will never yield—never betray -myself. My fate is sealed—misery must, in future, be my portion; but no -eye shall penetrate into the recesses of my heart.—none shall share my -distress, or counsel me in my calamity.” Thus she reasoned; and struggling -as she thought, against her guilty passion, by attempting to deceive -the object of her devotion, she in reality yielded herself entirely to -his power, self deluded and without controul. - -How new to her mind appeared the fever of her distracted thoughts! Love -she had felt—unhappy love, she had once for a time experienced; but no -taint of guilt was mingled with the feeling; and the approach to vice -she started from with horror and alarm. Lord Glenarvon had succeeded too -well—she had seen him—she had heard him too often; she fled in vain: -he read his empire in the varying colour of her cheeks; he traced his -power in every faltering word, in every struggling sigh: that strange -silence, that timid air, that dread of beholding him—all confirmed, and -all tempted him forward to pursue his easy prey. “She is mine,” he cried -exultingly,—“mine, too, without a struggle,—this fond wife, this chaste -and pure Calantha. Wherever I turn, new victims fall before me—they -await not to be courted.” - -But Lord Glenarvon had oftentimes said, that he never again could feel -affection for any woman. How then was the interest he shewed Calantha to -be accounted for? What name was he to give it? It was the attachment of -a brother to the sister whom he loved: it was all devotion—all purity; -he would never cherish a thought that might not be heard in heaven, or -harbour one wish detrimental to the happiness of his friend. This was -said, as it often has been said: both felt that it was false; but both -continued to repeat, what they wished to believe possible. His health -and spirits had much declined; he looked as if sorrows, which he durst -not utter, afflicted his heart; and though, in the presence of others -he affected gaiety, when alone with Calantha he did not disguise his -sadness. She sought to console him: she was grave—she was gentle, she -could be both; and the occasion seemed to call for her utmost kindness. - -He spoke much to her; and sometimes read as Lord Avondale once had done; -and none ever but Lord Avondale read as well. His tears flowed for the -sorrows of those whose poetry and history he repeated. Calantha wept -also; but it was for Glenarvon, that she mourned. When he had ended the -tale of love and sorrow, his eyes met hers and they spoke more—far more -than words. Perhaps he generously resolved to contend against his own -feelings; even at times he warned her of her danger.—But, when he bade -her fly him, he held her hand, as if to detain her; and when he said -the passion he cherished would cause the misery of both, he acknowledged -that her presence alleviated his sufferings, and that he could not bear -to see hers less. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint—there are hours of -agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant -vice and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital -of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued -Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s -tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst -not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one -prayer; upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy; -and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead -of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions -disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirely possessed himself of her -imagination. - -Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid secret, which weighed upon his -mind. He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; then turn to Calantha, -and ask her what she had heard and seen. His gestures, his menaces were -terrific. He would talk to the air; then laugh with convulsive horror; -and gazing wildly around, enquire of her, if there were not blood upon -the earth, and if the ghosts of departed men had not been seen by some. - -Calantha thought that madness had fallen upon his mind, and wept to think -that talents such as his were darkened and shrouded over by so heavy a -calamity. But when the fierce moment was passed, tears would force their -way into his eyes, and placing her hand upon his burning head, he would -call her his sole comforter, the only hope that was left him upon earth; -his dearest, his only friend; and he would talk to her of happier times; -of virtues that had been early blighted; of hopes that his own rashness -and errors had destroyed. - -It was one day, one dark and fatal day, when passion raging in his -bosom, and time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly approached her, -and seizing her with violence, asked her if she returned his love. “My -friendship is ruin,” he cried; “all alliance with me must cast disgrace -upon the object of my regard. But, Calantha, you must be mine! May I -not even now call you thus? Shall they ever persuade you to abandon me? -Vain is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; “I love you to madness -and to distraction—you know it too well. Why then suffer me to feel the -tortures I endure, when a word—a look from you could relieve me. You are -not indifferent: say then that you are not—thou, who alone canst save -me. Here even, in the presence of heaven, I will open my whole heart -before you—that heart is seared with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed -wounds, incurable and deadly. A few short years, I have perhaps yet -to linger: thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge me still lower, -whilst I cling to thee for mercy; but will you do it, because you have -the power?” - -Calantha scarce could support herself. After a moment’s pause, he -continued, “You shall hear me.—Never, since the hour of my birth, never—I -make no exception of either the living, or, what is far dearer and -more sacred to me, the dead—never did I love with such mad and frantic -violence as now. O seek not to disguise it; that love is returned. I -read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; and whilst, with assumed and -barbarous coldness, you would drive me from you, your own heart pleads -for me; and, like myself, you love.” - -Faint and trembling, Calantha now leant for support upon that arm which -surrounded her, and from which she, in vain, attempted to shrink. It -was a dreadful moment. Glenarvon, who never yet had sued in vain, marked -every varying turn of her countenance which too well expressed his empire -and her own weakness. “I cannot live without you.—Mine you are—mine you -shall ever be,” he said, “whilst this heart beats with life.” Then with -a smile of exultation, he seized her in his arms. - -Starting however with all the terror which the first approach to guilt -must ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified and trembling: “even -though my heart should break in the struggle, let me not act so basely by -him to whom I am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not hate me—say only,” he -continued, with more gentleness, and pressing her hand to his lips—“say -only, that you share the tortures of agony you have inflicted—say that -which I know and see—that I am loved to adoration—even as I love you.” - -With tears she besought him to spare her. “I feel your power too much,” -she said. “All that I ought not—must not say, I think and feel. Be -satisfied; your empire is complete. Spare me—save me; I have not power -to feign.” Her tears fell now unrestrained. “There is no need of this,” -he said, recovering himself; “you have sealed my fate. A moment of -passion beguiled me: I am calm now, as when first I met you—calm and -cold, even as yourself. Since it is your wish, and since my presence -makes your misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often said; but it shall -be alone. My country I leave without regret; for the chain of tyranny -has encompassed it: friends, I have none; and thou, who wert as an angel -of light to me—to whom I knelt for safety and for peace—mayst thou be -blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for me, nothing can increase -the misery I feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to share it. This -is no lover’s despondency—no sudden and violent paroxysm occasioned by -disappointed passion. It is uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness -of despair: it is the confession, not the repining of a heart that was -early blighted and destroyed.” - -Calantha now interrupted him. “I alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk -not of leaving me; we may still be friends—we must never be more.” “Oh! -promise that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon looked on her with -kindness. “Let no fears dissuade you until I shew myself unworthy of -the trust. Forsake not him, whose only happiness is in your affection. -I was joyless and without hope, when first I met you; but the return, -to loneliness and misery, is hard to bear. Be virtuous, and, if it -may be so, be happy.” “That I never more can be,” she answered. “You -are young in sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know not its dangers, its -pleasures, or its bitterness. All this, ere long, will be forgotten.” -“Never forgotten,” she replied, “oh never!” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -Glenarvon wandered forth every evening by the pale moon, and no one knew -whither he went, and no one marked but Calantha how late was his return. -And when the rain fell heavy and chill, he would bare his forehead to the -storm; and faint and weary wander forth, and often he smiled on others -and appeared calm, whilst the burning fever of his blood continued to -rage within. - -Once Calantha followed him, it was at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld -her, no mark of surprise or joy. She followed him to the rocks called the -Black Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain called the Wizzard’s Glen; -there was a lonely cottage near the cleft where St. Clara, it was said, -had taken up her abode. He knocked; but she was from home: he called; -but no one replied from within. Her harp was left at the entrance of -a bower: a few books and a table were also there. Glenarvon approached -the harp and leaning upon it, fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly -upon Calantha. “Others who formerly felt or feigned interest for me,” -he said “were either unhappy in their marriage, or in their situation; -but you brave every thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how little do you -know the heart for which you are preparing to sacrifice so much.” - -The place upon which they stood was wild and romantic; the sea murmured -beneath them; distant sounds reached them from the caverns; and the -boats passed to and fro within the harbour. The descent was rugged and -dangerous. Calantha looked first upon the scene, and then upon Glenarvon: -still he leant upon the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy -remembrances. - -“Sing once again,” she said, at length interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I -first heard you:—those notes reached the heart.” “Did they?” he cried, -approaching her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, one ardent kiss. -The blood rushed from her heart in alarm and agitation:—she trembled -and turned from him. “There is no cause,” he said, gently following -her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet one; the last alone is full -of bitterness.” - -“Sing to me” she said, confused and terrified, “for God’s sake, approach -me not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will sing,” he said, “and check those -fears,” saying which he began. It was not like a song, but a sort of -soft low murmur, with an air of such expression and empassioned feeling, -that every note said more than words: it vibrated to the soul. - - “Farewell.” - - Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me, - I must not—dare not—look on thee; - Too well thou know’st how dear thou art, - ’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part: - I wish thee not to share my grief, - It seeks, it hopes, for no relief. - - “Farewell.” - - Come give thy hand, what though we part, - Thy name is fixed, within my heart; - I shall not change, nor break the vow - I made before and plight thee now; - For since thou may’st not live for me, - ’Tis sweeter far to die for thee. - - “Farewell.” - - Thoult think of me when I am gone - None shall undo, what I have done; - Yet even thy love I would resign - To save thee from remorse like mine; - Thy tears shall fall upon my grave: - They still may bless—they cannot save. - - [Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.] - -“Sing no more,” said Calantha, “let us return home. I know not what I -say, or do. Judge not of my feelings by those which predominate in your -presence. I may be weak, I acknowledge your power, I am lost irretrievably -if you are resolved upon it.” “Calantha”, said Lord Glenarvon firmly, -“you may trust implicitly to my honor.—These are the last guilty words, -I will ever suffer to pass my lips. Henceforward consider me only as -your friend—as such accept my hand.” - -At that moment, they were interrupted; a bark from Inis Tara approached -the shore, and O’Kelly, Lord Glenarvon’s servant, and two other men -alighted. “To avoid observation, I will join my friends one moment,” he -said, “if you will walk gently home, I can overtake you,—but, perhaps -you will await my return.” “I will go home: it is late,” said Calantha. -He appeared much vexed; “well then I will await your return,” saying -this Calantha descended with him the rugged path down the cliff, and -watched the lessening bark, and heard the distant shouts from some of his -followers who were assembled in the cavern, as they hailed his approach -to land: after which a long silence prevailed, alone interrupted by the -rippling of the waves. The meeting was apparently over: there were whole -parties returning from below, in different directions. - -Whilst yet awaiting lord Glenarvon’s return, Calantha heard the same -air repeated, which he had so lately played. It seemed as if the wind, -as it blew along the wooded shores had struck upon the chords. It was -strange; for Glenarvon was gone. She turned in haste, and from above -beheld a young man. Ah no—it was St. Clara. Too soon she saw that it -was her. Her ear had caught the last murmurs of Glenarvon’s song, and -her hand feebly repeated the strain. But, soon perceiving Calantha, she -gazed with wild alarm one moment upon her, then, throwing the plumed hat -aside, with a grace and ease peculiar to herself, she struck the full -chords, and her clear voice ascended upon the air in soft impassioned -numbers. Lady Avondale heard the words of her song as it murmured along -the breeze. - -(To the air of, “_Hear me swear how much I love_.”) - - By that smile which made me blest, - And left me soon the wretch you see— - By that heart I once possest, - Which now, they say, is given to thee— - By St. Clara’s wrongs and woes— - Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows. - - By those lays which breathe around - A poet’s great and matchless art— - By that voice whose silver sound - Can soothe to peace th’ imprisoned heart— - By every bitter pang I prove— - Trust not young Glenarvon’s love. - - Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking, - Bereft of all that made life dear - My health impaired, my spirit breaking, - Yet still too proud to shed one tear: - O! lady, by my wrongs and woes, - Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows. - - And when at length the hand of death - Shall bid St. Clara’s heart be still— - When struggling with its latest breath, - His image shall her fancy fill, - Ah trust to one whose death shall prove - What fate attends Glenarvon’s love. - -Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to approach her. “Beautiful, unhappy St. -Clara, I will be your friend—will protect you.” She ran forward, and -climbed the steep ascent with ease; but the youthful harper arose—her -dark sunny ringlets waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: she slightly -bowed to Calantha as if in derision; and laughing, as she upheld a chain -with an emerald ring, bounded over the rocks with an activity, which -long habit had rendered familiar. - -Calantha beheld her no more: but the distant shouts of applause re-echoed -as at first among the caverns and mountains; and the bark with Lord -Glenarvon soon reappeared in sight. She awaited his return. As he -approached the beach, a loud murmur of voices from behind the rock -continued. He joined her in a moment. His countenance was lighted with -the ray of enthusiasm:—his altered manner shewed the success his efforts -had obtained. He told Calantha of his projects; he described to her the -meetings which he had held by night and day; and he spoke with sanguine -hope of future success—the freedom of Ireland, and the deathless renown -of such as supported her fallen rights. “Some day you must follow me,” -he cried: “let me shew you the cavern beneath the rock, where I have -appointed our meeting for the ensuing week.” - -“I will walk no more with you to Inis Tara:—the harp sounds mournfully -on those high cliffs:—I wish never more to hear it.” “Have you seen -St. Clara?” he said, without surprise. “She sings and plays well, does -she not? But she is not dear to me: think not of her. I could hate -her, but that I pity her. Young as she is, she is cruelly hardened and -vindictive.”—“I cannot fear her: she is too young and too beautiful to -be as abandoned as you would make me think.”—“It is those who are young -and beautiful you should fear most,” said he, approaching her more -nearly.—“I may fear them,” she replied, “but can you teach me to fly -them?” - -It was now late: very little else passed: they returned home, where -they were received with considerable coldness. But Lady Mandeville, -perceiving the state of suffering to which Calantha had reduced herself, -generously came forward to sooth and to assist her. She appeared really -attached to her; and at this time more even than at any former period, -shewed her sincere and disinterested friendship. And yet she was the -person Mrs. Seymour distrusted; and even Glenarvon spoke of her with -asperity and disdain. “Adelaide! though an envious world may forsake -thee, a grateful friend shall stand firm by thee to the last.” Such -were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, languidly throwing her -rounded arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, and sighed to think of -the misery she was preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I see how he loves -thee,” she continued, “I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.” - -That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady Avondale. His letter repeated all -he had before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. She had scarce -received it, scarce placed it in her bosom, when Lady Margaret attacked -her. “You think,” she said, “that you have made a conquest. Silly child, -Lord Glenarvon is merely playing upon your vanity.” Lady Augusta whispered -congratulations: Sophia hoped she was pleased with her morning walk; Sir -Everard coldly asked her if she had beheld his niece, and then, with -a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it was vastly pleasant to depend upon -certain people’s promises. - -All this time Calantha felt not grieved: Glenarvon had said he loved -her: it was enough: his attachment was worth all else beside; and Lord -Avondale’s increasing neglect and coldness steeled her heart against -the crime of inconstancy. - -Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity of speaking to her. “If -you accept my friendship,” he said frowning, “I must be obeyed:—you -will find me a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. If I once love, -it is with fervor—with madness. I must have no trifling, no rivals. The -being I worship must be pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, think -not that it is to let others approach her. No, Lady Avondale; not even -what appears most innocent to you, shall be endured by me. I shall be -jealous of every look, word, thought. There must be no shaking of hands, -no wearing of chains but such as I bestow, and you must write all you -think and feel without reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if you have -the power; but if you remain, you already know your fate.” - -Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt the necessity. To-morrow, she -said, she would go. That to-morrow came, and she had not strength. -Glenarvon wrote constantly: she replied with the same openness. “Your -letters chill me,” he said, “call me your friend, your lover: call -me Glenarvon—Clarence if you will. All these forms, these regulations -are odious amongst those who are attached. Say that you love, beloved -Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; for I see it, and know it. -There is no greater crime in writing it than in feeling it.” Calantha -said it too soon—too soon she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my friend, -my comforter:” such were the terms she used. Shame to the pen, the hand -that dared to trace them. Days, and days passed, and soon Glenarvon was -all on earth to her; and the love he felt or feigned, the only hope and -happiness of her existence. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Lord Avondale now looked more and more coldly on Calantha; but all others -courted and flattered her. The Princess and many others had departed. -Mrs. Seymour alone appeared to watch her with anxiety. In vain Calantha -affected the most thoughtless gaiety: remorse and suspense alternately -agitated her mind. One evening she observed Lord Glenarvon and her aunt, -Mrs. Seymour, in earnest discourse—she knew not then that she herself -was the subject. “She is pure, she is innocent,” said Mrs. Seymour: -“her spirits wild and thoughtless, may have led her into a thousand -follies; but worse, never—never.”—“Fierce passion burns in her eye,” -said Glenarvon, scornfully: “the colour in her cheeks varies.—I love -her as well as you can,” he continued, laughing; “but do you think she -does not love me a little in return?”—“Oh! even in jest, do not talk -thus of Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour: “you alarm me.”—“There is no -occasion,” replied Glenarvon: “calm yourself. I only said, that were -I to attempt it I could succeed; she should be ready to leave you, and -Lord Avondale, her dear husband and her babes, and her retinue, and all -else; and I could make her follow me as St. Clara did: aye verily; but, -in truth, I will not.” Mrs. Seymour was angry; she coloured; she was -hurt. “You could not,” she replied with warmth. “O I know her well, and -know you could not. Whatever her faults, she is so pure, so chaste even -in thought.”—“She loves me.”—“It is false” said Mrs. Seymour, still more -eagerly. “Even if she had any foolish romantic liking to another than -her husband, Buchanan is the favourite”—“Buchanan!” said Lord Glenarvon -with a sneer. “I will make her heart ache for this,” after which he -retired. - -Calantha knew not then one word of what had passed. The morning after -she was informed by Mrs. Seymour that Lord Glenarvon was gone. “Gone! -where?” she said rather in surprise, and agitated. “I know not,” replied -Mrs. Seymour, coldly enough. “I conclude to Belfont: his uncle Lord de -Ruthven is arrived there. But, indeed, I am glad he is gone:—you have -not conducted yourself well. I, your aunt, have no doubt of you; but -others, who know you less, Calantha, blame you more.” - -A letter was now delivered to Mrs. Seymour: she opened it: it was from -Glenarvon; she was dreadfully agitated upon reading it. It contained -these words:—“As you seem to doubt the confidence and attachment with -which your niece, the Countess of Avondale, has honoured me, I enclose -you one of her own letters, that you may see my vanity alone did not -authorise me in the conclusion that she was attached to me. Her duplicity -to me can scarcely justify the means I take of opening an aunt’s eyes; -but the peculiar circumstances of my situation will, I hope, excuse it. - - “Your most obedient servant, - “GLENARVON.” - -This letter enclosed one of Lady Avondale’s—one which, however, she had -not blushed to write. She read it with terror when Mrs. Seymour placed -it in her hands. Cruel Glenarvon! could he have the heart thus to betray -me—to my own aunt too. Oh! had that aunt been less indulgent, less kind, -what had been my fate? - -“You are innocent yet, my child,” said Mrs. Seymour, placing her arms -around her; “and the early conviction of the meanness and wickedness of -him for whom you were preparing to sacrifice so much, will render it -easy to reclaim yourself from your present errors, and look with less -confidence in future.”—“Never, never, will I pardon him,” cried Calantha, -with supprest indignation. “I will not hate; that were too flattering -to his vanity: I will not fly; that were a proof that there was cause -for it: but, lowered to the dust as I ought to feel—humbled to the earth -(and whilst she spoke, she looked and felt more proudly, more vainly -than ever), even I can despise him. What are superior talents, if he -who possesses them can act thus? Oh! I would rather die in torture, than -ever pardon this.” - -“Be less violent,” said Mrs. Seymour, with a look of heart-broken -tenderness and affection: “that stubborn spirit must be subdued.”—“I -will revenge——” “Be calm, Calantha: think what you are saying: how -unfeminine and how puerile! Put off these frowns and this idle rage, -and look reasonably upon your own conduct, not upon his.”—“Shall you -ever permit him to enter these doors again?”—“Had I the power, assuredly -never.”—“Oh, let him return; I care not; I can see him with the scorn, -with the indifference he deserves. Do not look thus, my dearest aunt: -dry your tears: I am not worth one single tear now; but I will act in -future so as to silence even these too just reproaches.” - -“Do you repent, Calantha?”—“Do not talk of repentance: I cannot feel it: -my sin is light compared with his.”—“Towards your husband,”—“Oh! Lord -Avondale, he is happy enough: he cares not.”—“Indeed he does, my child. -I tremble for you: every hour of your life is a continual warfare and -peril. One danger no sooner ends than another arises. Will you never -consider the duties of your situation, or the character you have to form -and to preserve?”—“Who is more loved than I am? On whom does even the -world smile with greater kindness? Beauties, wits, the virtuous—can they -cope with me? I am every one’s friend, and every one loves, even though -they blame Calantha.” As she said this, she smiled, and threw herself -on her aunt’s bosom. - -But all this Calantha did but to cheer her aunt. Though not false, she -dreaded any one’s seeing the real state of her mind: at this moment, -she thought Mrs. Seymour too gentle, and of too tender a nature to bear -the violence of her headstrong character:—she knew it would cause her -misery were she to read her heart’s secret, and she smiled therefore and -spoke with levity, whilst her soul was in torture. But the very moment -Mrs. Seymour had left her, Calantha gave way to the rage of fury, and -the despondency she felt. To have lost Glenarvon, was at this time the -real source of her regret;—to speculate upon the cause of his sudden -cruelty and treachery her sole occupation. - -At the hour of dinner Mrs. Seymour again entered her room; but without a -single reproach. She had been crying—her eyes were swollen and red; but -she affected scarcely to remember what had passed, and urged Calantha to -accompany her to dinner, as her absence on the day Lord Glenarvon was -from home, might appear strange. But Lady Avondale stubbornly refused, -and would not speak. She even appeared sullen, that her aunt might not -see she was miserable. She even affected more anger, more violence than -she felt against Glenarvon, that she might disguise from herself and -her aunt the pang his loss had given her. She relented however when she -saw her aunt’s grief; and, struggling with tears which never come till -passion is over, and which she thought it weak to display, she dressed -and appeared at dinner. It was alone to please Mrs. Seymour she had done -so; and, solely engrossed with the past, and utterly indifferent to the -mortifying remarks her melancholy and silence occasioned, Calantha hated -those who had the unkindness to censure and judge her, and looked not -upon herself with one sentiment of condemnation. - -Towards evening Lord Avondale came to her, and said kindly enough that -she looked ill. Then her heart smote her, and affecting a pettish ill -temper, which she did not, could not feel, she replied that she was well, -and took up a book, as if to read. May none ever experience the torture -Calantha felt, when, instead of being offended, he gently pressed her -hand. She had rather he had struck a dagger into her heart. - -Upon retiring to rest, Lady Avondale sent for Zerbellini, and asked -him respecting Lord Glenarvon. The boy was a constant favourite and -playmate of his; he carried notes and flowers, from each to the other; -and artless as he was, he already felt delight in the eager interest -so much mystery and secresy required.—He told Lady Avondale a thousand -anecdotes of Glenarvon; but he had told them so often that they failed -to please. He then showed her the presents he had received from those -who formerly professed to like her. “And did you ever shew them to Lord -Glenarvon?” said Lady Avondale? The thought occurring that this might -have offended. “I did,” said Zerbellini, with a shrewd smile.—“And -was he angry?”—“Oh, not in the least: only the more kind; and he did -question me so and then the boy repeated a thousand things that he had -asked, which shewed Calantha, too well, how eager he was to ascertain, -from other lips than her’s, every minute detail of follies and errors -she had committed. There was no need for this.” - -Lady Avondale felt indignant; for there was not a thought of her heart -she desired to conceal from him. What she had done wrong, she herself had -confessed without reserve; and to be thus cross-examined and distrusted, -deeply grieved her. She thought, too, it lessened her regard; it gave -her a worse opinion of Glenarvon; and this god—this idol, to whom she -had bowed so low, sunk at once from the throne of glory upon which her -imagination had raised him. “If I pardon this,” she cried, as she sent -Zerbellini away, and hastened to bed,—“if ever I waste a tear, or sigh, -or thought, on him again, may I suffer what I deserve.—But the thing is -impossible.” - -Lady Mandeville at this time was all kindness to Lady Avondale. She was -going from the castle; and, as she parted, she gave her this advice. -“Never place yourself in the power of any man: love of this sort is -apt to terminate in a wreck; and whoever puts most to stake will be the -sufferer.” Lady Augusta also departed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -From that day, Lady Avondale grew more calm; a degree of offended pride -supported her; and she resolved, cost what it might, to continue firm. -She saw, that private communications were taking place between Lady -Margaret, her Father, and even her Aunt and Glenarvon. He had already -contrived to interest every individual in the castle in his affairs.—Lord -Avondale often spoke of him with praise; Sir Richard, though he said he -was a comical personage, admired him, and the female part of the society -were all eager and enthusiastic about him. - -Lady Avondale experienced every feeling that can be imagined during this -short period; and received the half concealed taunts of her acquaintance -With becoming fortitude—even their commiseration for his having left her. -She heard their boasts too of what he had written to them, without once -repining; but envy, rancour, malice, hatred, rage and regret—all, more -or less, arose and subsided in her breast, till she heard one morning, -with a sort of trepidation, that Lord Glenarvon was in the adjoining -room. Mrs. Seymour immediately came to her. “Tell me truly,” she said, -“have you any objection to his dining here?” “Quite the contrary”, said -Calantha, with indifference; and she waited till she heard the sound -of the horses galloping from the outer court; she then looked from the -window, and her heart told her too well that she was not yet entirely -recovered from her infatuation. - -At dinner they were to expect him; and ’till dinner Lady Avondale -could think of nothing else. Mrs. Seymour watched her with anxiety.—She -affected all things, to disguise what she felt, and she did it better -than before, for habit now rendered the effort less painful. But Lady -Margaret, laughing at her, whispered maliciously in her ear, that every -thought and feeling, was more strongly exhibited by her, with all her -attempts to hide them than by most others, when they wished them to be -seen. “And I know,” she added, unkindly enough, “you would give any thing -on earth to be friends with him again.” “With who?” “See he appears,” -she said, “shall I name him?” - -Lady Avondale had resolved to be firm. There is a degree of dignity, -which every proud mind can assume. To have forgiven so much treachery -and cruelty, had been contemptible. She felt it, and prepared for the -encounter. “He will do every thing to regain you,” said Mrs. Seymour, -“but I have confidence in your present feelings. Shew him, that you are -not what he imagines; and prove to me, that I may still be proud of my -child.” Lady Avondale had taken Glenarvon’s ring from her finger, she -had placed upon her neck a row of pearls her husband had given her, upon -the eve of her marriage, and thus decorated, she thought her heart had -likewise returned to its ancient allegiance. - -Lady Avondale entered the dining-room. Lord Glenarvon passed her at the -moment; he was in earnest conversation with Lady Margaret, and slightly -bowed to her. She was surprised, she had expected kindness and contrition. -She was, however, resolved to act up to the very strictest bounds which -decorum prescribed. With some haughtiness, some appearance at least of -dignity, she seated herself as far from him as he could desire, and by -addressing herself calmly but entirely to others, she sought to attain -that look of unconcern, which he had so readily assumed. - -Dinner was no sooner over than unable any longer to conceal her vexation, -Lady Avondale retired to her room to compose herself. Upon returning, the -large society were employed either with billiards, cards, or work—except -a few of the men, amongst whom she perceived Lord Glenarvon. Had he -refrained from speaking to her, she could have borne it,—had he even -looked as grave, as ill as usual; but an unusual flow of spirits—a -peculiar appearance of health, had taken place of that customary languor, -to which he was at times subject. - -The evening and the supper passed without his saying one word in -apology for his unkindness, or in the least attending to her increasing -irritation. Lady Avondale affected unconcern as well as she could, -but it looked like any thing else; and in the morning she awoke but to -suffer new humiliations. She saw him smile as he named her in a whisper -to Lady Trelawney. She heard him talk to others upon subjects he had -once spoken of only to herself. Immediately upon this apparent rupture, -new hopes arose; new claims were considered; and that competition for -his favour, which had ceased, began again. Lady Trelawney laughed and -talked with him; at times turning her eye triumphantly towards Calantha. -Sophia confided her opinions to his breast; affected to praise him for -his present conduct, and the tear of agony, which fell from Calantha’s -eye, excited the indignation it deserved. - -“I have sacrificed too much for one who is heartless,” she said; “but, -thank God it is yet time for amendment.” Alas! Lady Avondale knew not, -as she uttered these words, that there is no moment in which it is so -difficult to act with becoming dignity and firmness, as that in which we -are piqued and trampled upon by the object of our devotion. Glenarvon -well knew this, and smiled at the pang he inflicted, as it proved his -power, and exhibited its effects to all. Lady Avondale summoned to her -aid even her faults—the spirit, the pride of her character, her very -vanity; and rested her hopes of firmness upon her contempt for weakness, -her abhorrence of vice. She looked upon him, and saw his attempts to -wound, to humiliate, to grieve; and she despised the man who could have -recourse to every petty art to torture one for whom he had professed so -much. If he wished to expose her weakness to every eye, too well he had -succeeded. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Few women know how to conceal successful love, but none can conceal -their doubt, resentment and jealousy. Men can do both, and both without -a struggle. They feel less, and fear more. But this was not the case -with Lord Glenarvon, nor did he wish to appear indifferent; he only -wished Calantha to feel his power, and he delighted in the exhibition -of it. In vain she had formed the best resolutions, they were now all -rendered useless. Lord Glenarvon had forestalled her wise intention, no -coldness—no indifference she could assume, had equalled that, which he -either affected or felt. - -Upon the bosom of Mrs. Seymour, Calantha wept for her fault; it was -infatuation, she said, she was cured: the lesson, though somewhat harsh, -had not been fruitless. Again, she made every promise, which affection and -repentance could suggest. She heard the name of her husband pronounced, -and longed to throw herself before him, and commend herself to his mercy. -I do repent, indeed I do, said Calantha, repeatedly in the course of the -day; and she thought her penitence had been sincere. Humbled now, and -gentle, she thought only of pleasing her aunt, Lord Avondale, and her -friends. She was desired to play during the evening: to shew her ready -obedience she immediately obeyed. Lord Glenarvon was in an adjoining -room; he entered when she began: springing up, Lady Avondale left the -harp; then, seeing Lord Avondale surprised, she prepared to tune it. - -Lord Glenarvon approached, and offered her his hand, she refused it. -“Will you play?” he said—and she turned the key with so much force that -it broke the chords asunder. “You have wound them too tight, and played -upon them too often,” he said. “Trifle not with me thus—I cannot play -now,” she replied. “Leave me, I entreat you.” “You know not what you have -done,” he replied. “All I ask—all I implore is, that you will neither -come near me, nor speak to me more, for I am mad.” “Women always recover -from these paroxysms,” said he, gaily. Calantha attempted to play, and -did so extremely ill, after which she went to bed, happier, it must -be owned, for she had seen in Lord Glenarvon’s manner that he was not -indifferent, and this rendered it more easy for her to appear so. - -The next morning Lady Avondale went out immediately after breakfast, -without speaking to Lord Glenarvon. He twice attempted it, but with real -anger, she refused to hear him. It was late in the day, when, having -sought for her before dinner, he at length found her alone. His voice -faultered, his eyes were filled with tears. “Lady Avondale—Calantha,” -he said, approaching her, “forgive me.—I ask it of you, and more, if -you require it, I will kneel—will sue for it. You can make me what you -please—I am wholly in your power.” “There is no need for this,” she said -coldly. - -“I will not rise till you forgive me. If you knew all—if ... but can you -indeed believe me indifferent, or cold? Look at me once: raise your eyes -and behold him, who lives but in you.” “All this is useless, you have -grieved me; but I do not mean to reproach, the idle complainings of a -woman are ever useless.” “To think that she suffers,” said Glenarvon, -“is enough. Look once—once only, look upon me.” “Let us part in peace,” -she replied: “I have no complaint to make, I have nothing to forgive,” -“raise your eyes, and look—Calantha look once on me.” - -She turned to him, she saw that face whose every feature was engraved -deep in her very heart—that smile of sweetness—that calm serenity, she -had not power to speak—to think; and yet recovering from this strange -enchantment,—“How could you betray me?” she said. “I judge you not, -but I can never feel either interest, or friendship again.” “Yet,” said -Glenarvon gravely, “I need both at this time, for I am miserable and ill -too, only I do not wish to excite your compassion by these arts, and I -had rather die unforgiven, than use any towards you.” - -“Wherefore did you betray me?” “Can you ask? I was deeply wounded. It is -not enough for me that you love me, all must, and shall know it. I will -make every sacrifice for you—run every risk: but every risk and every -sacrifice must be shared.” “Whatever my feelings may be,” she answered -coldly, “you shall never subdue me again. I may be infatuated, but I -will never be criminal—You may torture me as you please, if you have the -power over me which you imagine, but I can bear torture, and none ever -yet subdued me.” - -“Calantha,” said Lord Glenarvon, taking her hand firmly, and smiling half -scornfully, “you shall be my slave. I will mould you as I like; teach you -to think but with my thoughts, to act but with my feelings, you shall -wait nor murmur—suffer, nor dare complain—ask, and be rejected—and all -this, I will do, and you know it, for your heart is already mine.” “If I -forgive you,” she cried, “If you do not” he said, approaching nearer. “I -never will.” “And ’till you do, though your whole family should enter, -I will kneel here—here, even at your feet.” “You think to menace me.” “I -know my empire. Take off those ornaments: replace what I have given you: -this too you shall wear,” he said, throwing a chain around her, “Turn -from me if you can: the heart that I have won, you cannot reclaim, and -though the hand be thus denied me, this, this is mine.” Saying this, he -pressed her lips to his, a strange feeling thrilled to her heart as she -attempted vainly to hate him, or extricate herself from his embrace. -“I love you to madness,” he said, and you distract me. “Trust yourself -entirely to me, it is the only means of safety left. Yes, Calantha, I -will do for you, what no man ever did before. If it destroy me, I will -never lead you to guilt, only rely upon me, be guided by me.” “You -ran the risk she said, of our being separated for ever, of making my -aunt miserable. Of——.” “Nonsense child, I never risk any thing, it was -necessary your aunt should know, and the fear of losing you entirely will -make her readily consent to my seeing you more than ever,” “Oh God! what -guilt. Think not that my attachment is such as to bear it.” “It shall -bear all things,” said Glenarvon; “but if you sacrifice what I desire, -I will conquer every wrong feeling for your sake? Our friendship will -then be innocent.” “Not absolutely ... indeed I fear it; and if——” “Ah! -leave these gloomy thoughts. If love should triumph—if you feel half for -me, what I feel from my soul for you, then you shall accompany me from -hence. Avondale may easily find another wife, but the world contains -for me but one Calantha.” - -Lady Avondale felt happy.—Shame on the guilty heart that dared to feel -so! but alas, whilst Glenarvon thus addressed her, she did feel most -happy. In a moment, the gloom that had overshadowed her future hopes, -was dispelled. She saw her lover—her friend more than ever united to -her. He consented even to respect what remaining virtue she had left, -and from his gentle, his courteous words, it was not her wish to escape. -Yet still she resolved to leave him. Now, that peace was again restored, -that her irritated mind was calm, that her vanity was flattered, and -her pride satisfied, now the admonitions of her aunt recurred, and even -while her heart beat fondest for him, she pronounced her own doom, and -declared to him that she would tear herself away from him for ever. -“Perhaps this must be,” he said, after a moment’s pause; “but not yet, -Calantha, ah not yet.” As he spoke, he again pressed her to his bosom, -and his tears fell over her. Oh! had he not thus wept, Calantha had not -loved him. Struggling with his feelings for her, he generously resolved -to save, to spare her. “Remember this,” he said, “when they condemn -me.—Remember, Calantha, what I have done for you; how I have respected -you; and let not their idle clamours prevail.” - -Lady Avondale was too happy to feel vain. Glenarvon loved, as she never -had been loved before, every hour—every moment of each passing day -he seemed alone intent, and occupied with her; he wrote his minutest -thoughts; he counselled, he did not command. He saw that power, ambition, -was her ruling passion, and by affecting to be ruled, he completely -mastered her—in word, in look, in thought, he was devoted to her. Other -men think only of themselves; Glenarvon conquered himself a thousand -times for her. What is a momentary, a degrading passion to the enjoyment -she felt in his society? It only lowers the object of its fancy, he -sought to raise her even in her own esteem. “Forgive her, pity us,” he -said, addressing Mrs. Seymour, who saw in a moment, with alarm, their -reconciliation. “Drive us not to despair, I will respect her—will preserve -her, if you do not attempt to tear her from me, but dread the violence -of madness, if you reduce us to the last rash step. Oh dread the violence -of a mad and incurable attachment.” - -Calantha’s sole attention was now to hide from those it might grieve, -the change which a few days had again wrought. She appeared at dinner, -she seated herself opposite to Glenarvon. There was no look of exultation -in his countenance, his eyes met her’s mournfully. The diamond bracelets -that adorned her arms, had been given her by him; the chain and locket -which contained his dark hair, had been placed around her neck in token -of his regard; the clasp that fastened the band around her waist, was -composed of richest jewels brought by him from distant countries; and the -heart that was thus girt round and encircled with his gifts, beat only -for him, regardless of every other tie. “Oh my child! my child!” said -Mrs. Seymour, gazing on her in agony. “I will never reproach you, but do -not break my heart. You are ill in mind and health, you know not what -you say or do; God forgive and pardon you, my unhappy Calantha!” “Bear -with me a few moments,” said Lady Avondale much agitated: “I will part -from him; only give me time. Fear me not: I will neither leave you nor -act wickedly, but if you seek too hastily to sever us, oh my aunt, you -may be the means of driving two desperate minds to misery and madness.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -A few days previous to this quarrel and reconciliation, Sir Everard St. -Clare had been thrown from his horse in consequence of a tumult, in which -having beheld his niece and a dimness coming over his eyes, he was no -longer able to support himself. The fall was said to have injured his -spine. He was confined to his own room; but no one could prevail upon -him to lie upon his bed, or admit Lady St. Clare, who sat continually -sobbing at his door, lamenting her conduct and imploring his pardon. - -Whatever were the sufferings of Lady Avondale’s mind at this time, she -yet resolved to visit this afflicted family, as she had a real regard for -the doctor in spite of his singularities. She was preparing therefore -the ensuing day, to call upon him, when a servant informed her that a -young gentleman below desired to speak with her. Her heart beat upon -hearing the name Clarence of Costolly: but upon entering the room she -soon discovered, in the personage before her, the doctor’s unhappy niece, -Elinor, upon whom every counsel was lost—every menace and punishment -powerless. - -Elinor had entered the castle with a look of bold defiance; yet her -lips trembled, as she twice vainly attempted to address Lady Avondale, -who moved forward to enquire the cause of her visit. “I am come,” said -Miss St. Clare with haughty insolence, “to ask a favour of you—tell me -shall it be granted? my uncle is ill: he has sent to see me. This may -be a mere feint to draw me into his power. I will trust myself with no -one but you:—if you will engage for me, that I shall not be detained, -I will go to him; if not, come what will, I will never more set foot -into his house.” “Your having listened to the prayers of Sir Everard,” -answered Lady Avondale eagerly, “is a proof to me that you have a kind -heart, and you are so young, that I feel sure, oh most sure, that you -will return to a more virtuous course.” “To virtue!” said Elinor with -a smile of scorn “never—never.” - -As she spoke, a letter dropped from her bosom. Lady Avondale saw from -the superscription—the name of Glenarvon. Her heart sickened at the -sight; she tried to conceal her emotion; but she had not yet learned -sufficiently how to dissemble. Elinor, with ill suppressed rage, watched -Lady Avondale: she could scarcely stand the fury of her glance, when -in a voice, nearly choked with passion, “take it,” she said, throwing -the letter to her. “Yes, you shall give it him—give it to your lover. I -would have hated you, I would have injured you; but I cannot. No wonder -he admires you: I could myself; but I am miserable.” Lady Avondale -raised her eyes; every fierce expression had left Elinor’s countenance: -with a subdued, and mournful air, she turned aside as if ashamed of the -weakness she had shewn; then, taking a little miniature and chain from -her neck, “he sent for this too,” she cried. “He sent for all he gave -me, to offer to his new idol. Take it then, lady; and tell him I obeyed -his last command.” - -A tear dimmed for a moment her eye; recovering herself, “he has not -power,” she cried, “to break a heart like mine. ’Tis such as you, may die -for love—I have yet many years to live.” Lady Avondale sprang forward to -return the picture—the letter; but St. Clare, with a precipitancy she -was not prepared for, had left her; Lady Avondale arrived at the door -of the Castle only in time to see her gallop off. - -While she was yet holding the letter and picture in her hand, Glenarvon -was announced. He looked at both without exhibiting any symptom of -surprise, and having read the letter, shewed it to Calantha. It greatly -shocked her. “I am so used,” said he smiling, “to these scenes, that they -have lost all power with me.” “Unhappy Elinor,” said Lady Avondale. “In -good truth,” said Glenarvon “you may spare your pity, Calantha: the lady -has spirit enough: it is her lover who ought to claim compassion.” “Now -do not frown,” said he, “or reproach, or torment me about her. I know it -was wrong first to take her with me—it was wrong to see her since; but -never more, you may rely upon it, shall I transgress; and if you knew -all, you would not blame me. She absolutely forced herself upon me. She -sat at my door, and wept when I urged her to return home. What could I -do: I might have resisted.—Calantha, when passion is burning in every -vein—when opportunity is kind—and when those who from the modesty of -their sex ought to stand above us and force us from them, forget their -dignity and sue and follow us, it is not in man’s nature to resist. Is -it in woman’s?” he continued smiling archly. - -“I blame you not,” she replied; “but I pity her. Yet wherefore not -shew her some little kindness!” “A look, a word would bring her back -to me. She misrepresents every thing: she deceives herself.” “Love is -ever apt to do so.” “Oh! my adored Calantha, look not thus on me. You -are not like this wretched girl: there is nothing feminine, or soft, or -attractive in her; in you there is every charm.” “You loved her once,” -said Calantha. “It was passion, phrenzy, it was not love—not what I feel -for my Calantha.” “As you regard me, be kind to her.” “I was very kind -once, was I not?” “Oh not in that manner—not so.” “How then my soul? -explain yourself; you shall instruct me.” “Counsel her to repent.” “From -the lips that first taught her to err, how will such counsel prevail?” -“Why take your picture from her?” “To give it to the only friend I have -left.” “I shall send it her again.” “She will only laugh at you.” “I had -rather be the cause of her laughter, than of her tears.” “Fear not: she -is not prone to weeping; but perhaps,” he continued in a tone of pique, -“you would wish to give _me_ back also, as well as the portrait.” “Oh -never—never.” This was Lady Avondale’s answer; and Lord Glenarvon was -satisfied. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Lady Avondale sent the portrait to Miss St. Clare, and vainly endeavoured -to restore her to her uncle’s protection. She again spoke of her to -Glenarvon. - -“Cannot I yet save her?” she said; “Cannot I take her home, and sooth -her mind, and bring her back to virtue and to peace?” “Never more,” he -replied: “it is past: her heart is perverted.” “Is there no recall from -such perversion?” “None, none, my friend.” His countenance, whilst he -spoke, assumed much of bitterness. “Oh there is no recall from guilty -love. The very nature of it precludes amendment, as these beautiful, -these emphatic lines express, written by the Scottish bard, who had felt -their truth:”— - - “The sacred lore o’weel-plac’d love, - Luxuriantly indulge it; - But never tempt th’ illicit rove, - Tho’ naething should divulge it: - I wave the quantum o’ the sin, - The hazard of concealing; - But och! it hardens a’ within, - And petrifies the feeling.” - -“Is it indeed so?” “Alas! then, what will become of me?” “Calantha, -your destiny is fixed,” he cried, suddenly starting as if from deep -thought; “there is a gulph before you, into which you are preparing to -plunge. I would have saved you—I tried; but cannot. You know not how to -save yourself. Do you think a momentary pause, a trifling turn, will -prevent the fall? Will you now fly me? now that you are bound to me, -and the fearful forfeiture is paid? Oh turn not thus away:—look back at -the journey you have taken from innocence and peace: and fear to tread -the up-hill path of repentance and reformation alone. Remember when a -word or look were regarded by you as a crime—how you shuddered at the -bare idea of guilt. Now you can hear its language with interest: it has -lost its horror: Ah soon it shall be the only language your heart will -like. Shrink not, start not, Calantha: the road you pursue is that which -I have followed. See and acknowledge then, the power I hold over your -heart; and yield to what is already destined. You imagine, when I speak -of guilt, that you can shrink from me, that you can hate me; but you -have lost the power, and let me add, the right: you are become a sharer -in that iniquity—you must be a sharer in my fate. The actual commission -of crime still excites horror; but do you remember when you shuddered -at every approach to it? And cannot he who has triumphed thus far gain -all, think you, if it were his desire? Yes, you are mine—a being wholly -relying upon a wish, a breath, which I may chuse to kindle. Avondale’s -peace—your honour, are in my hands. If I resign you, my heart will break -in the struggle; but if I give way....” - -“Oh then,” she cried, “then are we ruined for ever and for ever. Do -not, even were I to consent, O! do not lead me to wrong. What shall ever -remunerate us for the loss of self-approbation?” He smiled bitterly. “It -is,” he said, “a possession, I never yet cared greatly to retain.” “And -is self-approbation the greatest of all earthly enjoyments? Is man so -independent, so solitary a being, that the consciousness of right will -suffice to him, when all around brand him with iniquity, and suspect him -of guilt?” He paused, and laughed. “Let us be that which we are thought,” -he cried, in a more animated tone. “The worst is thought; and that worst -we will become. Let us live on earth but for each other: another country -will hide us from the censures of the prejudiced; and our very dependence -upon each other, will endear us more and more.” Calantha withdrew her -hand—she looked upon him with fear; but she loved, and she forgot her -alarm. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -Strange as it may appear, a husband, unless his eyes are opened by -the confession of his guilty partner, is the last to believe in her -misconduct; and when the world has justly stamped disgrace upon her -name, he shares in his wife’s dishonour, for he is supposed by all to -know, and to connive at her crime. But though this be a painful truth, -experience every day confirms, that a noble and confiding husband is too -often, and too easily deceived. In the marriage state there is little -love, and much habitual confidence. We see neglect and severity on the -part of the man; and all the petty arts and cunning wiles on the side of -his more frail and cowardly partner. Indifference first occasions this -blindness; infatuation increases it; and in proportion as all interest -is lost for the object who so deceives, such husband lives the dupe of -the wife, who despises him for his blindness and dies in the same happy -illusion, in which he has so long passed away his life. He even presses -to his heart, as he leaves them his possessions, the children of some -deceitful friend, who, under the plea of amity to himself, has fed upon -his fortunes, and seduced the affections of his wife. - -Disgusting as such picture may be thought, is it not, unhappily for us, -daily exhibited to the public view? and shall they who tolerate and see -it, and smile in scorn at its continued and increasing success, affect -to start with horror from Calantha’s tale? or to discredit that Avondale -was yet ignorant of her guilt? He was ofttimes engaged with the duties -of his profession—nor thought that whilst risking his life in the service -of his country, the woman he loved and confided in, had betrayed him. - -His cheeks were red with the hue of health; his eyes shone bright with -sparkling intelligence; he laughed the loud heart’s laugh at every merry -jest, and slept with unbroken slumbers, the sleep of the righteous and -the just. Calantha looked upon him as we look afar off upon some distant -scene where we once dwelt, and from which we have long departed. It -awakens in our memory former pains and pleasures; but we turn from it -with bitterness; for the sight is distressing to us. - -Harry Mowbray loved his father and followed him; the baby Anabel held -out her arms to him when he passed; but Calantha assumed a stern coldness -in his presence, and replied to his few enquiries with all the apparent -insensibility of a proud and offended mind: yet such is the imperfection -of human nature, that it is possible Lord Avondale cherished her the -more for her very faults. Certain it is, that he felt proud of her, -and every casual praise which, even from the lips of strangers, was -bestowed on Calantha, gave him more delight than any profession, however -flattering, that could have been made to himself. To see her blest -was his sole desire; and when he observed the change in her manner and -spirits, it grieved, it tortured him:—he sought, but in vain, to remove -it. At length business of importance called him from her. “Write,” he -said, at parting, “write, as you once used. My presence has given but -little satisfaction to you; I dare not hope my absence will create pain.” -“Farewell,” said Lady Avondale, with assumed coldness. “There are false -hearts in this world, and crimes are enacted, Henry, at home ofttimes, -as well as abroad. Confide in no one. Believe not what your own eyes -perceive. Life is but as the shadow of a dream. All here is illusion. -We know not whom we love.” - -How happy some may imagine—how happy Calantha must have felt now that -Lord Avondale was gone. Far from it. She for the first time felt remorse. -His departure filled her with gloom:—it was as if her last hope of -safety were cut off; as if her good angel had for ever abandoned her; -and with a reserve and prudence, which in his presence, she had failed -to assume, she now turned with momentary horror from the near approach -of vice. The thought of leaving her home and Lord Avondale, had not -indeed ever seriously occurred, although she constantly listened to the -proposal of doing so, and acted so as to render such a step necessary. -She had seen Lord Avondale satisfied, and whilst Lord Glenarvon was near -her, no remorse obtruded—no fear occurred—she formed no view for the -future. To die with him, or to live but for that moment of time, which -seemed to concentrate every possible degree of happiness, this was the -only desire of which she had felt capable. But now, she shuddered—she -paused:—the baseness of betraying a noble, confiding husband, struck -her mind, and filled it with alarm; but such alarm appeared only to -accelerate her doom. “If I can resist and remain without deeper guilt, I -will continue here,” she cried; “and if I fail in the struggle, I will -fly with Glenarvon.”—This false reasoning consoled her. A calm, more -dangerous than the preceding agitation, followed this resolve. - -Glenarvon had changed entirely in his manner, in his character; all art, -all attempt at wounding or tormenting was passed. He seemed himself the -sufferer, and Calantha, the being upon whose attachment he relied, he was -as fearful of vexing her, as she was of losing him. On earth he appeared -to have no thought but her; and when again and again he repeated, “I -never loved as I do now,—oh never.” It may be doubted whether that heart -exists which could have disbelieved him. Others who affect only, are -ever thoughtful of themselves; and some plan, some wary and prudential -contrivance frequently appears, even in the very height of their passion. -The enjoyment of the moment alone, and not the future continuance of -attachment, employs their hopes. But Glenarvon seemed more anxious to -win every affection of her heart; to fix every hope of her soul upon -himself; to study every feeling as it arose, sift every motive, and -secure his empire upon all that was most durable, than to win her in the -usual acceptation of the word. And even though jealous that she should -be ready to sacrifice every principle of honour and virtue, should he -demand it, he had a pride in saving her from that guilt into which she -was now voluntarily preparing to plunge. - -Day by day, the thought of leaving all for him appeared more necessary -and certain.—She no longer shuddered at the mention of it. She heard him -describe their future life—the countries they should visit; and it even -pleased her to see that he was sincere in his intentions. No disguise -was now required: he called not the fire that burnt in his heart by -the name of friendship and of interest: “it is love,” he cried, “—most -guilty—most unconquerable. Hear it, mark it, and yet remain without -alarm. Ah! think not that to share it alone is required: your soul must -exult, that it has renounced every hope beyond; and Glenarvon’s love -must entirely fill your affections. Nay more, you shall sue for the -sacrifice which is demanded of others. Yourself shall wish it; for I -will never wrest from you that which, unless freely given, is little -worth. Perhaps, even when you desire to be mine, I, even I shall spare -you, till maddening with the fierce fires that devour us, you abandon -all for me.” - -He now opened to her the dark recesses of his heart; deeds of guilt -concealed from other eyes, he now dwelt upon to Calantha with horrid -pleasure. “Shrink not, start not,” he exclaimed, when she trembled at each -new confession. “Proud, even of my crimes, shalt thou become, poor victim -of thy mad infatuation; this is the man for whom thou leavest Avondale! -Mark me Calantha,—view me as I am, nor say hereafter that Glenarvon -could deceive.” “And do you never feel remorse?” she said.—“Never.” “Do -you believe?—” His countenance for one moment altered. “I know not,” he -said, and he was grave. “Oh must I become as hard as wicked” she said, -bursting into tears. He pressed her mournfully to his bosom. “Weep,” he -replied, “I like to see your tears; they are the last tears of expiring -virtue. Henceforward you will shed no more.” - -Those who have given way to the violence of any uncontrouled passion, -know that during its influence all other considerations vanish. It is of -little use to upbraid or admonish the victim who pursues his course: the -fires that goad him on to his ruin, prevent his return. A kind word, an -endearing smile, may excite one contrite tear; but he never pauses to -reflect, or turns his eyes from the object of his pursuit. In vain the -cold looks of an offended world, the heavy censures, and the pointed, -bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. Misfortunes, poverty, pain, -even to the rack, are nothing if he obtain his view. It is a madness -that falls upon the brain and heart. All is at stake for that one throw; -and he who dares all, is desperate, and cannot fear. It was phrenzy, -not love, that raged in Calantha’s bosom. - -To the prayers of a heart-broken parent, Lady Avondale opposed the -agonizing threats of a distempered mind. “I will leave you all, if you -take him from me. On earth there is nothing left me but Glenarvon.—Oh -name not virtue and religion to me.—What are its hopes, its promises, -if I lose him.” The fever of her mind was such, that she could not for -one hour rest: he saw the dreadful power he had gained, and he lost -no opportunity of encreasing it. Ah did he share it? In language the -sweetest, and the most persuasive, he worked upon her passions, till he -inflamed them beyond endurance. - -“This, this is sin,” he cried, as he held her to his bosom, and breathed -vows of ardent, burning love. “This is what moralists rail at, and -account degrading. Now tell them, Calantha, thou who didst affect to be -so pure—so chaste, whether the human heart can resist it? Religion bids -thee fly me,” he cried: “every hope of heaven and hereafter warns thee -from my bosom. Glenarvon is the hell thou art to shun:—this is the hour -of trial. Christians must resist. Calantha arise, and fly me; leave me -alone, as before I found thee. Desert me, and thy father and relations -shall bless thee for the sacrifice: and thy God, who redeemed thee, shall -mark thee for his own.” With bitter taunts he smiled as he thus spoke: -then clasping her nearer to his heart, “Tell both priests and parents,” -he said exultingly, “that one kiss from the lips of those we love, is -dearer than every future hope.” - -All day,—every hour in the day,—every instant of passing time Glenarvon -thought but of Calantha. It was not love, it was distraction. When near -him, she felt ecstacy; but if separated, though but for one moment, -she was sullen and desponding. At night she seldom slept; a burning -fever quickened every pulse: the heart beat as if with approaching -dissolution,—delirium fell upon her brain. No longer innocent, her fancy -painted but visions of love; and to be his alone, was all she now wished -for, or desired on earth. He felt, he saw, that the peace of her mind, -her life itself were gone for ever, and he rejoiced in the thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -One night, as she retired to her room, Gondimar met her in the passage, -leading from Mrs. Seymour’s apartment. “Lost woman,” he cried, fiercely -seizing her, “you know not what you love;—look to his hand, there is -blood on it!...” That night was a horrid night to Calantha; she slept, -and the dream that oppressed her, left her feeble and disordered. The -ensuing day she walked by the shores of the sea: she bared her forehead -to the balmy gales. She looked upon every cheerful countenance in hopes -of imbibing happiness from the smile that brightened theirs, but it was -vain. - -Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. They walked together to the mountains; -they conversed; and half in jest she asked him for his hand,—“not that -hand,” she said, “give me your right hand: I wish to look upon it.” -“I believe I must refuse you, your manner is so strange,” he replied. -“Do if you please, for the reason I wish to see it is more so. It was -a dream, a horrid dream, which made me ill last night. The effect, -perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” “I should like to hear it. Are -you superstitious?” “No; but there are visions unlike all others, that -impress us deeply, and this was one. I almost fear to tell it you.” “I -too have dreamt,” said he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought only to -my fancy, the dearest wishes of my heart. Oh would to God that I might -live to realize a dream like that, which blest me yesternight. Shall I -repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad for it; but mine, if indeed you wish -it, you may hear.” - -“I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat it) that I was in some far distant -country. I was standing by the sea, and the fresh air blew gently upon -me, even as it does now; but ... it was night. There was a dirge sung as -in monasteries, and friars passed to and fro, in long procession before -me. Their torches now and then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt was -mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all this was confused.—That which -was more striking, I remember better. A monk in black stood before me; -and whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to a height unusual and monstrous: -he seemed to possess some authority over me, and he questioned me as to -my conduct and affections. I tried to disguise from him many thoughts -which disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried manner of others; I named you -not. He shook his head; and then looking fiercely at me, bade me beware -of Clarence de Ruthven (for so he called you). I never can forget his -voice. All others you may see, you may converse with; but, Calantha, -beware,” he said, “of Clarence de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” “A -what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. “I dare not continue.” - -Glenarvon, however, insisted upon hearing this. “I never, never can -tell,” said Calantha, “for you look so much offended—so serious.—After -all, what nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” “That which seems to -have made no little impression upon Lady Avondale’s mind, cannot fail of -awakening some interest in mine. It is a very strange vision,” continued -he, fixing his eyes on her. “These idle phantasies are but repetitions -of the secret workings of the mind. Your own suspicions have coloured -this. Go on, let me hear all.” “Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I -seemed in my dream to doubt his words. Only this I remember:—he bade -me ask you for your hand—your right hand; he said there was a stain of -blood on it; and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he will not give it -you; there is a mark upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I awoke.” - -“To think me every thing however bad, that your monk may chuse to make -me out. Well foolish dreamer, look at my hand: say, is there a mark -on it?” The laugh which accompanied this question was forced. Calantha -started back, as she again observed that almost demoniac smile. His eyes -glared upon her with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks became pale; and -over his forehead, an air of deep distress struggled with the violence -of passion, till all again was calm, cold, and solemn, as before. She -was surprised at his manner; for although he made light of it, he was -certainly displeased, and much moved by this foolish occurrence. - -Glenarvon continued absent and irritable during the whole of the walk; -nor ceased enquiring oftentimes that day, respecting what she had said. It -appeared to her less extraordinary, when she remembered the circumstances -concerning Linden; yet he had so often acknowledged that event to her,—so -often spoke of him with pity and regret, that had he merely thought she -alluded to such transaction, he had been proud of the effort he had made -to save him, and of the blood he had shed upon that account. Whatever -then occasioned this strange perturbation;—however far imagination might -wander, even though it pictured crimes unutterable,—under Glenarvon’s -form all might be forgiven. Passion, perhaps, had misled its victim, and -who can condemn another when maddening under its trying influence! It -was not for Calantha to judge him. It was her misfortune to feel every -thing with such acute and morbid sensibility, that what in others had -occasioned a mere moment of irritation, shook every fibre around her -heart. The death of a bird, if it had once been dear, made her miserable; -and the slightest insult, as she termed it, rendered her furious. -Severity but caused a desperate resistance, and kindness alone softened -or subdued her. Glenarvon played upon every passion to the utmost; and -when he beheld her, lost beyond all recall, he seemed to love her most. - -How vain were it to attempt to paint the struggles, the pangs, the -doubts, the fears, the endless unceasing irritation of a mind disordered -by guilty love. Remorse had but little part in the disease; passion -absorbed every feeling, every hope; and to retain Glenarvon was there -any thing his weak and erring victim had refused? Alas! the hour came, -when even to leave all and follow him appeared incumbent. The very ruin -such conduct must occasion to Calantha, engaged her more eagerly to -agree to the proposal. - -Lady Margaret was now at times engaged with him in secret discourses, -which occasioned much apparent dissention between them; but Calantha -was not the subject. “He has the heart of a fiend,” Lady Margaret would -often exclaim, as she left him; and Calantha could perceive that, with -all her power of dissimulation, she was more moved more irritated by -him, than she ever had been before by any other. He also spoke of Lady -Margaret with bitterness, and the asperity between them grew to such a -height, that Calantha apprehended the most fatal effects from it. Still, -however, the Duke wished to conciliate a dangerous and malignant foe; -and though his visits to the castle were short, compared with what they -had been, they were as frequent as ever. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -It happened one morning that Calantha, having been walking with Lord -Glenarvon, upon her return entered the library rather unexpectedly, and -perceived Zerbellini with the Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret. They -all seemed in some confusion at her entrance. She was however too deeply -occupied with other thoughts to enquire into their strange embarrassment; -and looking at Glenarvon, she watched the varying expression of his -countenance with anxious solicitude. At dinner that day he seated himself -near her. Mrs. Seymour’s eyes were filled with tears. “It is too late,” -he said, in a low whisper: “be firm: it makes me mad to see the arts -that are used to separate us. Speak only to me—think only of me. What -avail their frowns, their reproaches? I am dearer, am I not than all?” - -Dinner being over, Calantha avoided her aunt’s presence. She perceived -it, and approaching her, “My child,” she said, “do not fly me. My unhappy -Calantha, you will break my heart, if you act thus.” At that moment Lady -Margaret joined them: “Ask Calantha,” she said, “now ask her about the -pearl necklace.” - -The pearl necklace in question was one which Lord Avondale had given -Calantha on the eve of her marriage. She was now accused of having given -it to Lord Glenarvon. It is true that she had placed in his hands all -the jewels of which she was mistress, that his presents might not exceed -in value such as she had power to offer; they had been too magnificent -otherwise for her to receive; and though only dear because they were -his gifts, yet to have taken them without return had been more pain than -pleasure; one smile of his were worth them all—one approving look, far -dearer. This gift of Lord Avondale’s, however, she had considered as -sacred, and neither Lord Glenarvon’s love, nor her own perversion, had -led her to touch it. She had received it when innocent and true; it was -pain to her even to look upon it now; and when she heard the accusation -made against her, she denied it with considerable warmth; for guilt but -irritates the mind, and renders the perpetrator impatient of accusation. -“This indignation is rather ill-timed however,” said Lady Margaret, -sarcastically: “there are things more sacred than pearls thrown away; -and if the necklace has not been given, it is, I believe, the only thing, -that has been retained.” - -Such unpleasant conversation was now interrupted by Sophia, who entered -the room.—“The necklace is found,” she said; “and who do you think had -taken it?” “I care not,” said Calantha proud and offended at their former -suspicions. “Zerbellini!” “Oh impossible!” “Some of Lady Margaret’s -servants first suggested the possibility,” said Sophia. “His desk and -wardrobe were consequently examined, and scarce giving credit to the -testimony of their sight, the lost prize was discovered in his silken -vest.” Calantha indignantly resisted the general belief that the boy was -the real culprit. Every one left the room, and eagerly enquired into the -whole affair. “If ocular proof is necessary to convince you,” said Lady -Margaret, returning to Calantha and leading her from the billiard room, -accompanied by many others, “you shall now have it; and see,” she cried, -pausing as she entered the boy’s apartment, “how soundly criminals can -sleep!” “Aye, and how tranquil and innocent they can appear,” continued -Gondimar smiling as he stood by the side of the page’s bed. Glenarvon’s -countenance, rendered more terrible by the glimmering of the lamp, -changed at these words. - -There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, lay the youthful Zerbellini, his -cheeks blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing in clusters about his face, -his arms thrown over his head with infantine and playful grace. “If he -be guilty,” said Calantha, looking earnestly at him, “Great God, how -much one may be deceived!” “How much one may be deceived!” said the Duke -turning back and glancing his eye on the trembling form of his daughter. -The necklace was produced: but a look of doubt was still seen on every -countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly approaching Gondimar, asked him -whether some villain might not have placed it there, to screen himself -and to ruin the boy? “I should be loath,” replied the Italian, with an -affectation of humility, “very loath to imagine that such a wretch could -exist.” A glance of bitter scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed. - -“We can see the boy, alone, in the morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper -to Calantha; “there is more in this than we know of. Be calm; fear -not, and to-morrow, we can with caution discover all.” “Do not talk of -to-morrow,” replied Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment is too long to -bear injustice. I will plead with my father.” So saying, she followed -him, urging him to hear her. “Consider the youth of the child,” she said, -“even if guilty, remember he is but young.” “His youth but aggravates -the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing her. “When the young can -act basely, it shews that the heart’s core is black. Plead not for him: -look to yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and left her. The time -was past when a prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed in vain; and -struggling with a thousand strong emotions, she fled to her own room, -and gave vent to the contending passions, by which she was so greatly -agitated. - -That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt -was now considered as certain. The Duke himself awakening the child, -asked him if he had taken the necklace. He coloured extremely; hid his -face, and then acknowledged the offence. He was questioned respecting -his motive; but he evaded, and would not answer. His doom was fixed. -“I will take him from hence,” said Gondimar. “He must not remain here -a single hour; but no severity shall be shewn to so youthful an offender.” - -It was at that dark still hour of the night, when spirits that are -troubled wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, that Lady Margaret -and Count Gondimar, entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if he were -prepared. “For what?” exclaimed the boy, clasping his hands together. -“_Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi!_ Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady -Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are -these your promises—your kindnesses?” “Help me to bear him away,” said -Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If Glenarvon should hear us? and force was -used to bear the struggling boy from the Castle?” - -In the morning Calantha was informed, by Lady Margaret, of the whole -transaction. She said, however, that on account of his youth, no other -notice would be taken of his fault, than that of his being immediately -sent back to his parents at Florence. - -Calantha was unquiet and restless the whole of the day. “The absence of -your page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, as she passed her, “seems -to have caused you some little uneasiness. Do you expect to find him -in any of these rooms? Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, or the -Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel been examined thoroughly?” - -A loud noise and murmur interrupted her. The entrance of the Count -Gondimar, pale and trembling, supported by Lord Glenarvon and a servant, -gave a general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, fiercely glancing his -eyes around, “attacked our carriage, and forced the child from my grasp.” -“Where?—how?” “About twenty miles hence,” said the Italian. “Curse on -the darkness, which prevented my defending myself as I ought.” “Those -honorable wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently that the Count -wrongs himself.” “Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do me a favour. Fly to -the stables; view well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear any appearance -of recent service: I strongly suspect him: and but for his presence -at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, I could have staked my -soul it was by his arm I received these wounds.” “The horse,” said Lord -Trelawny, when he returned, “is sleek and far different from the reeking -steeds that followed with your carriage.” Glenarvon smiled scornfully -on the officious Lord: then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, “I -read your suspicions,” said he in a low voice, as he passed: “they are -just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,” -replied Gondimar, grinding his teeth. “By the murdered....” “Say no more,” -said Glenarvon, violently agitated, while every trembling nerve attested -the agony he endured. “For God’s sake be silent. I will meet you at St. -Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the whole of my conduct, and you -will not find in it aught to give you just offence.” “The ground upon -which you stand has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, with a malicious -smile: “look at your hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and exhausted, -scarce appeared to support himself any longer; but suddenly collecting -all his forces together, with a struggle, which nature seemed scarcely -equal to endure, he sprung upon the Italian, and asked him fiercely the -meaning of his words. Gondimar now, in his turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney -interposed; and peace was apparently restored. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count, -though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon -took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were. -Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening. -Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort -her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense, -O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of -his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back -door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a -portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching -an opportunity hastened to the door. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited -her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was -Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when -she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been -betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and -every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said -the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said -O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward. - -“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured; -confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I -contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause -the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the -cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never, -never,” she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said, -in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets -upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou -read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back -with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared -for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty; -grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am -thus with you.” - -There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays -his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the -commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look, -so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful -countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that -very time he shrunk from the joy she professed; for he knew that he had -led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever. - -“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let -me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my -soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes; -for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that -I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name! -Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to -thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it. -You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to -hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love -me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and -received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me -some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been my victims; I, -alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have -made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you, -and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your -pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who -affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary -exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing -by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed -upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in -the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched -victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary -path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than -when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my -agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their -suspicions; but do not you refuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I -have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast -away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the -only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal -perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou -consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the -strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor, -every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah -say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?” - -“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more -miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible -you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will -consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her -full in the face. “Alas! if I do thus, how will yourself despise me. -When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with -infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how -will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from -the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue -spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every -opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought -against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will -teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it -is nothing to it.” - -“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget -the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me -die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,” -said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I -will trust you; but not till then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as -she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I -do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You -love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look -not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers -of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I -will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.” -“And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.” -“Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview -with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that -you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but -of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what -disguise would I not assume to see you?” - -O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his -ear.—“I will attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.” -“Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks: -you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will -trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly -interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said -Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all -without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady -Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though -I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if -you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to -the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he -promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the -morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady -Margaret entered, and informed her of this. - -She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands, -and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected -from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that -Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While -Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe -countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon -upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as -her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaret without a word -being uttered on her part, left the room. - -As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is -going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for -you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal, -and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness -he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s -right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,” -continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination, -that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your -letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe -the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end -here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached -her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said, -“to exceeding low spirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief -has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? -Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father, -an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it? -Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart, -that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for -itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are -now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in -this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with -your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made -early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but -you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s -blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale -a noble choice? What quality is there, whether of person or of mind, -in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I -do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an -offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him -that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear -you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud -looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge; -but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This -is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in -its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not -at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up -his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress -who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child. -No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or support me; but on my knees -here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to -me: I am very miserable.” - -“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be -forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more; -and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words? -It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that -I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my -positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended -God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see -him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be -found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his -will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw -his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words, -trembling with passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left -her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.— - -At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am -miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle. -Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon, -I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself -who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately. -You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but -in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say -you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.” - -Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who -was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She -endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in the morning respecting -her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to -the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she -knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her -niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length -of time. - -Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood -met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some -one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I -cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where? -How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too -early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He -turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given -yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh, -you know not what has passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled -contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the -dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of -art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I -shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there, -Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power: -do not lead me to infamy and ruin.” - -Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion -in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no -rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of -suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore -testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his -heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with -disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is -it for such as you that I have consented to live? How different from her -I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the -husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon -his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it -would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from -malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled -with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached -too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half -suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever -cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You -will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and -excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to -either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -In the course of the day, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha “I have never sought -to win you to me after the manner other men might desire,” he said. -“I have respected your opinions; and I have resisted more than woman’s -feelings can conceive. But Calantha you have shared the struggle. I have -marked in your eye the fire of passion, in the quivering of your lip and -changing complexion, the fierce power which destroyed you. When in the -soft language of poetry, I have read to you, or spoken with the warmth -I knew not how to feign, you have turned from me it is true; but pride -more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. Every principle in your -heart is shaken; every tie that ought to bind thee most, is broken; and -I who should triumph at my success, weep only for thy fall. I found thee -innocent, confiding and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh God! wilt thou -thus be left? wilt thou know that thy soul itself partakes in thy guilt, -wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you have -given me a solemn promise to meet me in secret: it is the first time -concealment has been rendered necessary. I know your nature too well, not -to be convinced that you are already preparing to retract. Do so, if it -be your will:—I wish you not to take one step without fully appreciating -its consequences, and the crime incurred. I have never disguised to you -the guilt of our attachment since the moment in which I felt assured of -my own sentiments. I wished you to feel the sacrifice you were making: -how otherwise could I consider it as any? my love is worth some risk. -Every one knows my weakness; and did you feel half what you inspire, -you would be proud, you would glory in what you now attempt to hide. -The woman I love, must see, must hear, must believe and confide in no -other but me. I renounce every other for you—And, now that I claim you -as my own, expect the fulfilment of your many professions. Shew me that -you can be firm and true: give yourself to me entirely: you are mine; -and you must prove it. I am preferred before every earthly being in -my Calantha’s heart—my dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed I have -long ceased to entertain a single doubt; but now I require more. Even -in religious faith—even in hopes, in reliance upon the mercy of God, I -cannot bear a competitor and a rival.” - -“There is a rite accounted infamous amongst christians:—there is an oath -which it is terrible to take. By this, by this alone, I will have you -bound to me—not here alone, but if there be a long hereafter then shall -we evermore be linked together: then shall you be mine far more, far -dearer than either mistress or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery of -superstition: but what on earth deserves a higher name? Every varying -custom and every long-established form, whether in our own land, or -those far distant tracts which the foot of man has rarely traversed, -deserves no higher name. The customs of our forefathers—the habit of -years, give a venerable and sacred appearance to many rites; but all is -a dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the frail perishable attempts of -human invention. Even the love we feel, Calantha—the beaming fires which -now stimulate our hearts, and raise us above others is but illusion—like -the bright exhalations which appear to mislead, then vanish and leave -us more gloomy than before.” - -Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand was cold; no varying colour, no -trepidation shewed either life or vigour; there was a struggle in her -mind; and a voice seemed to call to her from her inmost soul: “For the -last time, Calantha, it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last time -I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience as it cries to thee for -the last time:—go not to thy ruin; plunge not thy soul into the pit -of hell; hurl not destruction upon thy head. What is this sin against -thy religion? How canst thou throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy -God? It is a mere mockery of words; a jealous desire to possess every -avenue of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee from every feeling of -remorse and virtue; to plunge thee in eternal perdition. Hear me: by -thy mother’s name I call: go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... “Am I -mad, or wherefore is my soul distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again to me: -my comforter—my heart’s friend, oh leave me not. By every tie thou art -bound to me: never, never will I forsake thee. What are the reproaches of -conscience—what the fancied pangs of remorse, to the glory, the ecstacy -of being thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, perhaps, by all who hear -my fate, I have lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity I may be -called upon to endure. Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. Thy words are -like the joys of Heaven: Thy presence is the light of life: existence -without thee would not be worth the purchase.—Come all the woes that -may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.” - -The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She -would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.” -The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with -affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love -by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp, -as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the -affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.” - -I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will -regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character -of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony -mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious -ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not -judge who cannot understand. - -Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands -the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow -Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was -forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe, -that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a -culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s -house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death -for my sake. - -Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of -offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits -of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was -all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier! -alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can -I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she -prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock: -she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for -the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but -he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within -was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not -thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the -signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -It was past three o’clock, when Calantha opened the cabinet where the -page’s clothes were formerly kept, and drew from thence his mantle and -plumed hat; and, thus disguised, prepared herself for the interview. She -slowly descended the stairs: the noisy revels of the servants might still -at intervals be heard: in a moment she glided through the apartments and -passages, till she found herself at the door which led to the terrace. -It opened heavily, and closed again with a loud noise. Alarmed, lest -she should be discovered, she flew with rapidity over the terrace and -lawn, till she approached the wood, and then she paused to take breath, -and to listen if all were silent. - -Calantha walked fearfully onwards. The first night on which she had met -Glenarvon the moon was bright and full, and the whole scene was lighted -by its rays; but now, it was on the wane—the silver crescent shone alone, -and the clouds continually passing over it, cast fearful shadows upon -the grass. She found herself in the thickest part of the wood. She heard -a hollow murmur:—it was but the alders, waving in the wind, which made -a tremulous noise like voices whispering at a distance. She passed on, -and the recollection that it was to Glenarvon that she was hastening, -and that it was probably for the last time, made her indifferent to her -fate, and rendered her fearless. Besides, the desperate and the guilty -never fear: a deeper feeling renders them callous to all beside—a spirit -of defiance deadens in them the very edge of apprehension. She proceeded -to the appointed place. The sea dashed against the cliff below; and -the bleak wind whistled through the ruined chapel as it came in hollow -blasts over the heath. - -Calantha perceived Glenarvon. He was leaning upon one of the broken rocks: -he viewed, unawed, the melancholy scene before him. No superstitious -terrors had power to shake his soul: misery had done its utmost to subdue -him. Nor ray of hope, nor prosperity, could afford him comfort, or remove -his dejection. In the first transports of joy at seeing him, she darted -towards him; but when she marked the paleness of his cheeks, and the -stillness of his attitude, she started back, and advanced slowly: for -she feared to disturb him. - -The evening breeze had blown back his dark locks, and bared his pale -forehead, upon which the light of the moonbeam fell. She gazed upon -him; and while she contemplated the beautiful majesty of his figure, -his fixed and mournful eyes, his countenance so fraught with feeling, -she approached him. “My friend, my lover,” she said. “Ah! my little -trembling page, my Zerbellini, welcome to my heart,” he answered: “I -knew you would not fail; but I have waited for you till every bright -illusion of hope has been changed into visions of despondency and fear. -We meet now: but is it indeed to part no more! Glenarvon is yours, and -shall never be severed from you.” - -“Ah! triumph over yourself and me,” she cried, clasping her hands in -agony. “Ask any sacrifice but this. Do not make me contemptible to you -and to myself.” “Calantha, the time for safety is past: it is too late -now. I have linked my soul to yours; I love you in defiance of myself; -I know it to be guilt, and to be death; but it must be. We follow but -the dark destiny that involves us: we cannot escape from fate. For you -alone I live:—be now but mine. They tell you of misery, of inconstancy, -of lovers’ perjuries, from the olden time; but you shall prove them -false. You leave much, it is true—rank, fame and friends, a home and the -dearest ties of a mother’s heart—children; but have you not embittered -all that you relinquish? Say that I yield you up and fly,—to what fate -shall I then consign you? to what endless repining, unjoyous solitary -hours—remorse, regret, the bitter taunt of friends, the insulting scorn -of strangers, and, worse than all—O! worse than all the recoiling heart -can endure, the unsuspicious confidence and caresses of an injured -husband, of him you have already betrayed. O Calantha, turn from these -to a lover’s bosom; seek for comfort here; and now, even now, accompany -me in my flight ..................................” - -“I will leave all for you:—I love but you: be you my master.” Scarce -had she uttered the impious oath which bound her to him, when her heart, -convulsed with terror, ceased to beat. “Tis but in words—oh God! ’tis but -in words, that thy guilty servant has offended. No—even in the delirium -of passion, even in the transports of love, the fear of thy vengeance -spake terrors into her soul, and ingratitude for all thy favours was -not to be numbered with her sins.” But the oath which she had taken was -terrible. She considered herself as no longer under the protection of -her God. She trembled exceedingly; and fear for one moment overpowered -her. Lord Glenarvon looked upon her, mournfully, as if sorry for the sin -which he had cast upon her soul. “Now,” he said, “you will look back -upon these moments, and you will consider me with abhorrence. I have -led you with me to ruin and remorse.” “On me—on me, be the sin; let it -fall upon me alone,” she replied; “but if, after this, you forsake me, -then shall the vengeance of God be satisfied—the measure of my crime be -at its full. It is not in my power—I cannot forsake you now: I will go -with you, Glenarvon, if it were to certain death and ruin. I am yours -alone. But this night I must return home,” she said. “I will not leave -my father thus—I will not cause my aunt’s death.” “If you leave me now -I shall lose you.” “O Glenarvon, let me return; and after seeing them -once again, I will follow you firm until death.” - -He placed a ring upon her finger. “It is a marriage bond,” he said; -“and if there be a God, let him now bear witness to my vows:—I here, -uncompelled by menace, unsolicited by entreaty, do bind myself through -life to you. No other, in word or thought, shall ever hold influence or -power over my heart. This is no lover’s oath—no profession which the -intoxication of passion may extort: it is the free and solemn purpose -of a soul conquered and enchained by you. Oh Calantha, beloved, adored, -look upon me, and say that you believe me. Lean not upon a lover’s bosom, -but upon a friend, a guardian and protector, a being wholly relying on -your mercy and kindness. My love, my soul, look yet once upon me.” - -“Why fall our tears? Is it in terror of approaching evil, or in regret -for involuntary error? My bosom’s comfort, my soul’s idol, look not thus -coldly on me; for I deserve it not. Your will is mine: lead me as it -delights your fancy: I am a willing slave.” “If you abandon me,” said -Calantha, in tears. “May the curse of God burn my heart and consume me! -may every malediction and horror fall tenfold upon my head! may phrenzy -and madness come upon my senses! and tortures in this world and the next -be my portion, if ever I change my sentiments towards you!” - -With words like these, Glenarvon silenced her as she returned to the -castle; and, strange as it may seem, untroubled sleep—such sleep as in -better days she once enjoyed, fell upon all her senses, quieted every -passion, and obliterated, for a few hours, the scenes of guilt which -tortured her with their remembrance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -To wake is terrible when the heaviness of sin is upon us!—to wake, and -see every object around us the same as before; but to feel that we are -utterly changed! I am still in a father’s house, she thought, as late -the ensuing morning she opened her eyes. “My name is not yet branded -with disgrace; but I belong alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. Seymour -sent for her: the nurse entered with the children. But Calantha looked -upon the ring, and trembled. - -Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, dressing in haste, entered Mrs. -Seymour’s room. Never had she found it easy to deceive till that moment. -To tell her the truth had been to kill her: she feigned therefore with -ease, for her aunt’s life required it, and she herself was desperate. -“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” she replied, nor -blushed at affirming it. “Two days, and you have not seen Glenarvon?” -she said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I thought one had killed -me,” replied Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” and she hurried from -her presence. - -Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode out the whole of the day: it seemed -to her as if a moment’s pause or rest would have been agony unutterable. -And yet, when the spirit is heavy there is something unpleasant in the -velocity of motion: throwing, therefore, the reins upon her well-trained -steed, she paced slowly over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections -which it had been pain to interrupt. - -Suddenly a horse and rider, in full speed, darting along the moor, -approached and crossed upon her path. “Whither ride you lady, so slow?” -said Miss St. Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce reining in her swift -footed charger. “And whither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said Calantha, -courteously returning her salute. “To perdition,” cried Elinor; “and -they that wish to follow must ride apace.” The hat and plume of sacred -green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, were all but too well -observed by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. Clara, fixing her dark -eyes upon her, asked her respecting him. “Is thy young lover well?” she -said; “and wilt thou be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: he -could not rest: didst thou?” Saying which, she smiled, and rode away. - -Oppressed with many bitter doubts, Calantha returned to the Castle; and -what is strange, she felt coldly towards Glenarvon. On her return, she -found letters from him far the most ardent, the most impassioned she -had yet received. He spoke with grief of her unkindness: he urged her -by every tie most dear, most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. Yet, -that night, she went not to meet him; she wrote not kindly; she loved -not. She retired early; and her thoughts were painful and terrible. But -such is the inconsistency of the human heart; her coldness seemed but -to encrease his ardour. She received that night, the warmest, the most -unguarded letters; she even now dreaded the violence of his attachment. -Remorse, she felt, had taken the place of passion in her own heart: for -all within was chilled, was changed. - -As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling to think—unable to forget, -she heard a step stealing along the passage; and in a moment Glenarvon -entered her apartment. “We are lost,” she cried. “I care not,” he said, -“so that I but see you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak lower,” -he said, approaching her: “be calm, for think you that when you have -risked so much for me, I dare not share the danger. After all, what is -it? Whoever enters must do it at their peril: their life shall pay the -forfeit: I am armed.”—“Good God! how terrible are your looks: I love -you; but I fear you.” - -“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, “that day when I first told you of my -love? You blushed then, and wept: did you not? But you have forgotten -to do either now. Why, then, this strange confusion?”—“I am sick at -heart. Leave me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear of all earthly beings, -turn not thus away from me; look not as if you feared to meet me; feel -not regret; for if it be a crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me alone. -I know how men of the world can swear and forswear: I know, too, how -much will be attempted to sever you from me: but by that God in whose -sacred eye we stand; by all that the human heart and soul can believe -and cherish, I am not one of that base kind, who would ever betray the -woman that trusted in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, I could not -change. You are all on earth that I love, and, perhaps what is better -worth, that I esteem and respect—that I honor as above every other in -goodness, purity and generous noble feelings. O! think not so humbly -of yourself: say not that you are degraded. My admiration of you shall -excuse your error: my faithful attachment whilst existence is given to -either of us shall atone for all. Look on me, my only friend; dry up -the tears that fall for an involuntary fault; and consider me as your -protector, your lover, your husband.” - -There required not many words, not many protestations. Calantha wept -bitterly; but she felt happy. “If you change now,” she said, “what will -become of me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, from this country: I ask -not for other ties than those that already bind us. Yet I once more -repeat it, I know you must despise me.”—“What are words and vows, my -heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what are they? The false, the vain, the -worldly-minded have made use of them; but I must have recourse to them, -Calantha, since you can look at me, and yet mistrust me. No villany that -ever yet existed, can exceed that which my falsehood to you would now -evince. This is no common worldly attachment: no momentary intoxication of -passion. Often I have loved: many I have seen; but none ever sacrificed -for me what you have done; and for none upon earth did I ever feel what -I do for you. I might have made you mine long ago: perhaps I might have -abused the confidence shewn me, and the interest and enthusiasm I had -created; but, alas! you would then have despised me. I conquered myself; -but it was to secure you more entirely. I am yours only: consent therefore -to fly with me. Make any trial you please of my truth. What I speak I -have written: my letters you may shew, my actions you may observe and -sift. I have not one thought that is unknown to you—one wish, one hope -of which you are not the first and sole object. Many disbelieve that I -am serious in my desire that you should accompany me in my flight. They -know me not: I have no views, no projects. Men of the world look alone -to fortune, fame, or interest; but what am I? The sacrifice is solely on -your part: I would to God it were on mine. If even you refuse to follow -me, I will not make this a plea for abandoning you: I will hover around, -will protect, will watch over you. Your love makes my happiness: it is -my sole hope in life. Even were you to change to me, I could not but be -true to you.” - -Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to accompany him: he risked much; -and seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding the guileful -heart; and he who had deceived many, could assuredly deceive her. Yet -it appears, that he urged her more than ever to fly with him; and that -when, at length she said that her resolution was fixed—that she would -go, his eyes in triumph gloried in the assurance; and with a fervour he -could not have feigned he called her his. Hitherto, some virtuous, some -religious hopes, had still sustained her: now all ceased; perversion -led the way to crime, and hardness of heart and insensibility followed. - -One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her confessions of former scenes. -One by one, he betrayed to her the confidence others had reposed in his -honour. She saw the wiles and windings of his mind, nor abhorred them: -she heard his mockery of all that is good and noble; nor turned from -him. Is it the nature of guilty love thus to pervert the very soul? Or -what in so short a period could have operated so great a change? Till -now the hope of saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had led her on: now -frantic and perverted passion absorbed all other hopes; and the crime he -had commended, whatever had been its drift, she had not feared to commit. - -Calantha had read of love, and felt it; she had laughed at the sickening -rhapsodies of sentiment, and turned with disgust from the inflammatory -pages of looser pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented every feeling -she most abhorred; and it was in herself, she found the reality of all -that during her whole existence, she had looked upon with contempt and -disgust. Every remaining scruple left her; she still urged delay; but -to accompany her master and lover, was now her firm resolve. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -Glenarvon had retired unperceived by any, on the evening he had visited -her, in her apartment. The following day he appeared at the castle; they -both avoided each other: she indeed trembled at beholding him. “Meet me -at the chapel to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she obeyed too well. - -They were returning through the wood: she paused one moment to look upon -the sea: it was calm; and the air blew soft and fresh upon her burning -forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... a female figure, passing through -the thicket behind, with a hasty step approached them, and knelt down -as if imploring for mercy. Her looks were wild; famine had stamped its -hollow prints in furrows on her cheeks; she clasped her hands together; -and fixing her eyes wildly upon Glenarvon, remained in silence. - -Terrified, Calantha threw herself for safety at his feet; and he clasping -her closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh Glenarvon,” she cried, “look, -look; it is not a human form: it is some dreadful vision, sent to us -by the power of God, to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, fear not: no -power shall harm you.” - -Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed for one moment on the thin and -ghastly form, that had occasioned her terror. “God bless you,” cried the -suppliant. He started at the hollow sound. It seemed to him indeed that -the awful blessing was a melancholy reproach for his broken faith. He -started: for in that emaciated form, in that wild and haggard eye, he -thought he recognized some traces of one whom he had once taken spotless -as innocence to his heart,—then left a prey to remorse and disappointment. -For the sake of that resemblance, he offered money to the wretch who -implored his mercy, and turned away, not to behold again so piteous, so -melancholy a spectacle. - -Intently gazing upon him, she uttered a convulsive groan, and sunk -extended on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon both flew forward to -raise her. But the poor victim was no more: her spirit had burst from -the slight bonds that yet retained it in a world of pain and sorrow. -She had gazed for the last time upon her lover, who had robbed her of -all happiness through life; and the same look, which had first awakened -love in her bosom, now quenched the feeling and with it life itself. -The last wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a curse for him who had -abandoned her: and the tear that he shed unconsciously over a form so -altered, that he did not know her, was the only tear that blessed the -last hour of Calantha’s once favorite companion Alice Mac Allain. - -Oh! need a scene which occasioned her every bitter pang be repeated?—need -it be said that, regardless of themselves or any conclusions which their -being together at such an hour might have occasioned: they carried the -unconscious girl to the door of the castle, where O’Kelly was waiting -to receive them. Every one had retired to rest; it was late; and one of -Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly alone remained in fearful anxiety watching -for their return. - -Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless form before her, Calantha -turned to Glenarvon. But his countenance was changed; his eyes were fixed. -“It is herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the sight, a faintness came -over him:—the name of Alice was pronounced by him. O’Kelly understood -his master. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the girl in -his arms, he promised Calantha to do all in his power to restore her, -and only implored her to retire to her own apartment: “For my master’s -sake, dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He was indeed no longer the -same subservient strange being, he had shewn himself hitherto; he seemed -to assume a new character, on an occasion which called for his utmost -exertion; he was all activity and forethought, commanding every thing -that was to be done, and awakening lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a -sense of their situation. - -Although Lady Avondale was at last persuaded to retire, it may be supposed -that she did not attempt to rest; and being obliged in some measure to -inform her attendant of what had passed, she sent her frequently with -messages to O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy friend. At last -she returned with a few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. “Calantha,” -he said, “You will now learn to shudder at my name, and look upon me -with horror and execration. Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is Alice -whom we beheld. She came to take one last look at the wretch who had -seduced, and then abandoned her:—She is no more. Think not, that to -screen myself, I have lost the means of preserving her.—Think me not -base enough for this; but be assured that all care and assistance have -been administered. The aid of the physician, however has been vain. Calm -yourself Calantha: I am very calm.” - -The maid, as she gave this note, told Calantha that the young woman -whom Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door of the castle, was poor -Miss Alice—so altered, that her own father, she was sure would not know -her. “Did you see her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly took me to see her, -when I carried the message to him: and there I saw my Lord Glenarvon so -good, so kind, doing every thing that was needed to assist her, so that -it would have moved the heart of any one to have seen him.” While the -attendant thus continued to talk, her young mistress wept, and having -at length dismissed her, she opened the door, listening with suspense -to every distant noise. - -It was six in the morning, when a loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused -her hurrying down, she beheld a number of servants carrying some one -for air, into one of the outer courts. It was not the lifeless corpse -of Alice. From the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared a larger form, -and, upon approaching still nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving -that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, who having arisen to enquire -into the cause of the disquiet he heard in the house, had been abruptly -informed by some of the servants, that his daughter had been discovered -without any signs of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly and the -other attendants had pressed forward to assist him. - -Calantha now leaving him in their hands, walked in trembling alarm, -through the hall, once more to look upon her unhappy friend. There leaning -against one of the high black marble pillars, pale, as the lifeless -being whom, stretched before him, he still continued to contemplate, she -perceived Glenarvon. His eyes were fixed: in his look there was all the -bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: and in that noble form, the -wreck of all that is great might be traced. “Look not thus,” she said, -“Oh Glenarvon: it pierces my heart to see you thus: grief must not fall -on one like you.” He took her hand, and pressed it to his heart; but he -could not speak. He only pointed to the pale and famished form before -him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt down by its side and wept in -agony, “There was a time,” said he, “when I could have feared to cast -this sin upon my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness and affection, -as I have done. But I have grown callous to all; and now my only, my -dearest friend, I will tear myself away from you for ever. I will not -say God bless you:—I must not bless thee, who have brought thee to so -much misery. Weep not for one unworthy of you:—I am not what you think, -my Calantha. Unblessed myself, I can but give misery to all who approach -me. All that follow after me come to this pass; for my love is death, -and this is the reward of constancy. Poor Alice, but still more unhappy -Calantha, my heart bleeds for you: for myself, I am indifferent.” - -Gerald now returned, supported by O’Kelly. The other servants, by his -desire, had retired; and when he approached the spot were his child was -laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave him. He did so; and Mac Allain -advanced towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive a poor old man,” he said in -a faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, my lord: a father’s curse in -the agony of his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh lady Calantha,” -said the old man, turning to her, “lord Glenarvon has been very noble -and good to me; my sons had debts, and he paid all they owed: they had -transgressed and he got them pardoned. You know not what I owe to my -lord; and yet when he told me, this night, as I upbraided the wretch -that had undone my child and was the cause of her dishonor and death, -that it was himself had taken her from my heart; I knelt down and cursed -him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon the agony of a wretched father, a poor old -man who has lived too long.” - -Calantha could no longer master her feelings; her sobs, her cries were -bitter and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly away. O’Kelly -insisted upon the necessity of her assuming at least some self command; -and whispering to her, that if she betrayed any violent agitation, -the whole affair must be made public: he promised himself to bring her -word of every minute particular, if she would for a few hours at least -remain tranquil. “I shall see you again,” she said, recovering herself -and approaching Lord Glenarvon before she retired: “You are not going?” -“Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I shall not leave the castle at this -moment; it would look like fear; but after this, my dearest friend, I do -not deceive myself, you cannot, you ought not more to think of me.” “I -share your sorrows.” She said: “you are most miserable; think not then, -that I can be otherwise.” “And can you still feel any interest for one -like me? If I could believe this, even in the bitterness of affliction, -I should still feel comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” “Never. -Oh would to God I could; but it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon, -more than ever, even were it to death. Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed -her hand, in silence; then following her “for your dear sake, I will -live,” he said. “You are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! how from my soul -I honour you.” - -Calantha threw herself upon her bed; but her agitation was too great to -allow of her recurring in thought to the past, and fatigue once again -occasioned her taking a few moment’s rest. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -When Lady Avondale awoke from her slumbers she found the whole castle in -a state of confusion. Lady Margaret had twice sent for her. Every one was -occupied with this extraordinary event. Her name, and Lord Glenarvon’s -were mentioned together, and conjectures, concerning the whole scene, -were made by every individual. - -At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, the body of Alice was conveyed -to his own house, near the Garden Cottage. He wished no one to be informed -of the particulars of her melancholy fate. He came, however, a few -days after her removal, to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but mediately -admitted him. They talked together upon all that had occurred. He gave -her a letter, and a broach, which had been found upon the body. It was -addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was also a lock of hair, which seemed, -from the fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. The letter -was a mournful congratulation on his supposed marriage with a lady in -England, written at some former period; it wished him every happiness, -and contained no one reproach. The broach consisted of a heart’s ease, -which she entreated him sometimes to wear in remembrance of one, who had -loved him truly. “Heart’s ease to you—_mais triste pensée pour moi_,” -was engraved upon it. “You must yourself deliver these,” said Mac Allain -looking wistfully at Calantha. She promised to do so. - -Mac Allain then drew forth a larger packet which was addressed to himself. -“I have not yet read it,” he said, “I am not able to see for my tears; -but it is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and when I have ended -it, I will give it to you, my dear lady, and to any other whom you may -wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of gratitude -and affection which you profess, and have shewn our family, do not let -any one read this but myself:—do not betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels -your sufferings: he more than shares them. For my sake I ask you this. -Keep this transaction secret; and, whatever may be suspected, let none -know the truth.—Say: may I ask it?” - -Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. He wept in bitter anguish. “The -destroyer of my child,” he said, “will lead my benefactress into misery. -Ah! my dear young lady, how my heart bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she -turned away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” she said. “You may command; -but the news of my child’s death is spread: many are talking of it -already: I cannot keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord Glenarvon’s name -appear.” Mac Allain promised to do all in his power to silence every -rumour; and, with the help of O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. The -story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan first had carried her with him to -England, where she had fallen into poverty and vice. No further enquiry -was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself confided to many, the secret which -Calantha was so eager to conceal. - -The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may be omitted by those who wish not -to peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to read it when Calantha had ended -it. He also took the broach, and pressing it to his lips, appeared very -deeply affected. After this, for a short time he absented himself from -the castle. The following pages, written by Alice, were addressed to her -only surviving parent. No comment is made on them; no apology offered -for their insertion. If passion has once subdued the power of reason, -the misery and example of others never avails, even were we certain of -a similar fate. If every calamity we may perhaps deserve, were placed -in view before us, we should not pause—we should not avert our steps. -To love, in defiance of virtue is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the -safety of its victims, were a generous but useless effort of unavailable -interference. It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s fury—far beyond -human aid to quell. Calantha read, however, the history of her friend, -and wept her fate. - - -ALICE’S NARRATIVE. - -“My dear and honoured father, - -“To you I venture to address this short history of my unhappy life, and if -sufferings and pain can in part atone for my misconduct, I surely shall -be forgiven by you; but never, while existence, however miserable, is -prolonged, never shall I forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the rumour of -my disgrace has reached you, and added still severer pangs to those you -before endured. But oh! my father, I have, in part, expiated my offences. -Long and severe sorrows have followed me, since I left your roof, and -none more heart rending—oh! none to compare with the agony of being -abandoned by him, for whom I left so much. You remember, my dear father, -that, during the last year, which I passed at the castle, the attention -which Mr. Buchanan had paid me, was so marked, that it occasioned the -most serious apprehensions in Lady Margaret, on his account. Alas! I -concealed from every one, the true cause of my encreasing melancholy; and -felt happy that the suspicions of my friends and protectors were thus -unintentionally misled. I parted with Linden, nor told him my secret. -I suffered the severest menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; for I -knew myself guilty, though not of the crime with which I was charged. -At Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means to make my escape, or rather, -the mad attachment of one far above me, removed every obstacle, which -opposed his wishes and my own. - -“But it is time more particularly to acquaint you, my dear father, by what -accident I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to whom my fate was linked—whose -attachment once made me blessed—whose inconstancy has deprived me of -every earthly hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained leave to pass -the day with you, that my brother, Garlace, took me with him in his boat, -down the river Allan, and Roy and yourself were talking eagerly of the -late affray which had taken place in our village. I then pointed out to -you the ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you the history of its -unhappy owners. My father, that evening, when yourself and Roy were gone -on shore, my brother Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me down the -current with the wind: and as we passed near the banks from behind the -rocks, we heard soft low notes, such as they say spirits sing over the -dead; and as we turned by the winding shore, we soon perceived a youth -who was throwing pebbles into the stream, and ever whilst he threw them, -he continued singing in that soft, sweet manner I have said. He spoke -with us, and the melancholy sound of his voice, attracted us towards him. -We landed close by the place near which he stood. He accompanied us to -the front of the castle; but then entreating us to excuse his proceeding -further, he retired; nor told us who he was. From that day, I met him -in secret. Oh! that I had died before I had met with one so young, so -beautiful, but yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save him: my feeble -help could not reclaim him: it was like one who clasped a drowning man, -and fell with him in the struggle: he had cast sin and misery upon his -soul. Never will I soil these pages with the record of what he uttered; -his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; and soon, most soon shall -I perish with them....” - -Calantha paused in the narrative; she gasped for breath; and wiping away -the tears which struggled in her eyes: “If he treated my friend with -unkindness,” she said, “dear as he has hitherto been to me, I will never -behold him more.” She then proceeded. - -“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I am sick at heart. The rest of my -story is but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles of guilty love, -is but adding to the crime already committed. I accuse him of no arts -to allure: he did but follow the impulse of his feelings: he sought to -save—he would have spared me: but he had not strength. O my father, you -know Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, all that the most grateful -enthusiasm could feel; and for the sake of the son whom he restored to -you, you must forgive him the ruin of an ungrateful child, who rushed -forward herself to meet it. Unused to disguise my sentiments, I did -not attempt even to conceal them from him; and when he told me I was -dear, I too soon shewed him, how much more so he was to me. For when the -moment of parting forever came, when I saw my Lord, as I thought, for -the last time, you must not judge me—you cannot even in fancy imagine, -all I at that hour endured—I left my country, my home—I gave up every -hope on earth or heaven for him. Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have -suffered cruelly; and you, my father, when you read these pages, bless -me, forgive me. Turn not from me, for you know not the struggles of my -heart—you can never know what I have endured.” - -Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; and paused again. She paced -to and fro within her chamber, in strong agitation of mind. She then -eagerly returned to peruse the few remaining pages, written by her -miserable, her infatuated friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. “The -God of Heaven will not, does not condemn her. Oh she was spotless as -innocence compared with me.” - -“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted -with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him; -nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can -fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the -only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom. -Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded -by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I -will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s -mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the -three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother -of a child, and Clare, my little son, was dear to his father. But after -his birth, he forsook me. - -“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends, -when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had -resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state -of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for -permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if -unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still -he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than -the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his -friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go -to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me -a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not. -Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,” I -said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die -upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a -fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are -going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep -in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his -arms.... - -“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a -misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous -illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that -my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had -provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to -follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates -of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s -whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helpless outcast, in my -own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well -known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to -enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt -to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy -hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My -letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every -thing, every thing was refused me.... - -“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my -Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by -ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains! -by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you -do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I -heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp of agony, I clasped the boy -to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have -the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my -power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s -pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for -support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my -shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of -his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see -him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have -I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk -me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father -cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more.... - - * * * * * - -“Linden had heard of my disgrace and misery; he had written to me, but -he knew not where I was.... - -“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of -a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend -of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised -to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before -you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the -malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon -hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I -alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear -father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St. -Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little -thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his -own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare -too; but I never saw Glenarvon.... - - “From my miserable Lodging, Cork, - Thursday Night. - -“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking -heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us -back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: -I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I -have lost every thing. - - “Sunday. - -“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet -music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and -soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me; -but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, -he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a -bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if -I see him—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I -am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish -to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd.... - - “Tuesday Night, Belfont. - -“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have -seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I -can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter -bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They -tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady -Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he -looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon -me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form, -he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it -could not be:—he did not know me; and I will see him again. If he will -but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child -still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your -heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write. -They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no -other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin, -I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale. -They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she -will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall -wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see -him again....” - -And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received -from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected -kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and she was buried in the -church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave, -and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that -now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and -wild-goats, might not destroy it. - -“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills -me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from -it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence -was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent -for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said -Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is -past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with -contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need -you thus confess them? and whatever your feelings, wherefore betray them -to the senseless crowd? - -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as -yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all; -but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal -the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to -the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint -upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the -contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know, -that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you -to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with -puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of -your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew -your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by the very exhibition of -your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love -your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply -rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You -know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied. -Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire -interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the -earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at -himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue. -The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and -bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware! -and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is, -what he has done. He is....” - -“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened, -and he entered. He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed, -durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken -of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs. -Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not -shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful -countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she -observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the -air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him; -and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully -enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a -moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if -ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured -I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence -were prolonged, to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s -uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me. - -“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least -in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud. -“Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,” -said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, -frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own -utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly. -“She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s -heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply -interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized -her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating -her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You -shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, “She goes -with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are -married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady -Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.” - -“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I -do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the -whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power -I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued -with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach -her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never -was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to -you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity; -for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.” - -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a protecting tone, “are you not -vain?” “This Glenarvon has been the lover of many hundreds; to be thus -preferred is flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what consists -your superiority? You are not as fair as these; you are not perhaps as -chaste; but you are loved more because your ruin will make the misery -of a whole family, and your disgrace will cast a shade upon the only -man whom Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior to himself—superior -both in mind and person. This, child, is your potent charm—your sole -claim to his admiration. Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, point -out to him an object more worth the trouble and pain of rendering more -miserable and he will immediately abandon you.” - -Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon Lady Margaret. The disdain of that -glance silenced her, she even came forward with a view to conciliate: and -affecting an air of playful humility—“I spoke but from mere jealousy,” -she said. “What woman of my age could bear to see another so praised, so -worshipped in her presence. It is as if the future heir of his kingdom -were extolled in presence of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, Glenarvon. -I know, I see you love her.” “By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried -exultingly, “with what furious rage the little tygress gazes on you. She -will harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, “if I do not carry her -from your presence. Come then Calantha: _we_ shall meet again,” he said, -turning back and pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s apartment. The -tone of his voice, and his look, as he said this were peculiar: nor did -he for some moments regain his composure. - -Lady Margaret spoke a few words to Calantha that evening. “I am in the -power of this man,” she said, “and you soon will be. He is cold, hard -and cruel. Do any thing: but, if you have one regard for yourself, go -not with him.” “I know his history, his errors,” said Calantha; “but he -feels deeply.” “You know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a look of scornful -superiority, “as he wishes you to believe him. He even may exaggerate, -were that possible, his crimes, the more to interest and surprise. You -know him, Calantha, as one infatuated and madly in love can imagine the -idol of its devotion. But there will come a time when you will draw his -character with darker shades, and taking from it all the romance and -mystery of guilt, see him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, which the -light of genius, self-love and passion, have warmed at intervals; but -which, in all the detail of every-day life, sinks into hypocrisy and -baseness. Crimes have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, even by -noble minds, but Glenarvon is little, contemptible and mean. He unites -the malice and petty vices of a woman, to the perfidy and villany of a -man. You do not know him as I do.” - -“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignation burning in her bosom, “we -never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange one word with each other. -I renounce you entirely; and think you all that you have dared to say -against my loved, my adored Glenarvon.” - -Lady Margaret sought Calantha before she retired for the night, and -laughed at her for her conduct. “Your rage, your absurdity but excite -my contempt. Calantha, how puerile this violence appears to me; above -all, how useless. Now from the earliest day of my remembrance can any -one say of me that they beheld me forgetful of my own dignity from the -violence of my passions. Yet I feel, think you not, and have made others -feel. Your childish petulance but operates against yourself. What are -threats, blows and mighty words from a woman. When I am offended, I -smile; and when I stab deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven. -Your friends talk of you with kindness or unkindness as it suits their -fancy: some love; some pity, but none fear Calantha. Your very servants, -though you boast of their attachment, despise and laugh at you. Your -husband caresses you as a mistress, but of your conduct he takes not -even heed. What is the affection of the crowd? what the love of man? -make yourself feared! Then, if you are not esteemed, at least you are -outwardly honoured, and that reserve, that self-controul, which you -never sought even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in alarm. Many hate -me; but who dares even name me without respect. Yourself, Calantha, -even at this moment, are ready to fall upon my bosom and weep, because -I have offended you. Come child—your hand. I fain would save you, but -you must hear much that pains you, before I can hope even to succeed. -Only remember: ‘_si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous mangera_.’” She -smiled as she said this, and Calantha, half offended, gave her the hand -for which she solicited. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -Mrs. Seymour was now extremely unwell, the least agitation was dreaded -for her. Calantha was constantly enquiring after her; but could not bear -to remain long in her presence. Yet at night she watched by her, when she -did not know of it; and though she had ceased to pray for herself, she -prayed for her. Could it be supposed that, at such a moment, any personal -feelings would engage Calantha to add to her uneasiness. Alas! she sought -in the last resources of guilt to alleviate every apprehension she might -cherish; she feigned a calm she felt not; she made every promise she -meant not to fulfil; she even spoke of Glenarvon with some severity for -his conduct to Alice; and when Mrs. Seymour rejoiced at her escape, she -pressed her hand and wept. Lady Margaret, from the day of their quarrel, -cold and stern, ever arose to leave the room when Calantha entered it, -and Mrs. Seymour seeing resentment kindling in her niece’s eye, in the -gentlest manner urged her to bear with her aunt’s humour. - -Lord Glenarvon had not written to Calantha for some days; he had left the -castle; and she laboured under the most painful suspense. The narrative -of Alice’s sufferings was still in her possession. At length he sent -for it. “My Calantha,” he said, in a letter she received from him, “My -Calantha, I have not heard from you, and my misery is the greater, as I -fear that you are resolved to see me no more. I wish for the narrative -in your possession; I know the impression it must make; and strange as -it may appear, I almost rejoice at it. It will spare you much future -sorrow; and it can scarce add one pang to what I already suffer. Had -you accompanied me, it was, I will now acknowledge, my firm resolve to -have devoted every moment of my life to your happiness—to have seen, -to have thought, to have lived, but for you alone. I had then dared to -presume, that the excess of my attachment would remunerate you, for all -the sacrifices you might be compelled to make; that the fame of Glenarvon -would hide, from the eyes of a censorious world, the stigma of disgrace, -which must, I fear, involve you; and that, at all events, in some other -country, we might live alone for each other.—The dream is past; you have -undeceived me; your friends require it: be it, as you and as they desire. -I am about to quit Ireland. If you would see me before I go, it must be -on the instant. What are the wrongs of my country to me? Let others, -who have wealth and power, defend her:—let her look to English policy -for protection; to English justice for liberty and redress. Without a -friend, even as I first set foot upon these shores, I now abandon them.” - -“Farewell, Calantha. Thou art the last link which yet binds me to life. -It was for thy sake—for thine alone, that I yet forbore. It is to save -thee, that I now rush onward to meet my fate: grieve not for me. I stood -a solitary being till I knew you. I can encounter evils when I feel that -I alone shall suffer. Let me not think that I have destroyed you. But -for me, you then might have flourished happy and secure. O why would you -tempt the fate of a ruined man?—I entreat you to send the papers in your -possession. I am prepared for the worst. But if you could bring yourself -to believe the agony of my mind at this moment, you would still feel -for me, even though in all else chilled and changed.—Farewell, dearest -of all earthly beings—my soul’s comforter and hope, farewell.” “I will -go with thee Glenarvon, even should my fate exceed Alice’s in misery—I -never will forsake thee.” - -Calantha’s servant entered at that moment, and told her that Lord -Glenarvon was below—waiting for the answer. “Take these papers,” said -Calantha, and with them she enclosed a ring which had been found upon -Alice: “Give them yourself to Lord Glenarvon: I cannot see him.—You may -betray me, if it is your inclination; I am in your power; but to save -is not. Therefore, for God’s sake, do not attempt it....” The attendant -had no difficult task in executing this errand. She met Lord Glenarvon -himself, at the door of the library. - -Upon alighting from his horse, he had enquired for Lady Margaret Buchanan; -before she was prepared to receive him, the papers were delivered into -his hands; he gave them to O’Kelly; and after paying a shorter visit -to Lady Margaret than at first he had intended, he returned to the inn -at Belfont, to peruse them. First however he looked upon the broach, -and taking up the ring, he pressed it to his lips and sighed, for he -remembered it and her to whom it had been given. Upon this emerald ring, -the words: “_Eterna fede_,” had been inscribed. He had placed it upon -his little favourite’s hand, in token of his fidelity, when first he had -told her of his love; time had worn off and defaced the first impression; -and “_Eterno dolor_,” had been engraved by her in its place—thus telling -in few words the whole history of love—the immensity of its promises—the -cruelty of its disappointment. - -Calantha was preparing to answer Glenarvon’s letter: her whole soul was -absorbed in grief, when Sophia entered and informed her that the Admiral -was arrived. It was, she knew, his custom to come and go without much -ceremony; but his sudden presence, and at such a moment, overpowered -her. Perhaps too, her husband might be with him! she fell: Sophia called -for assistance. “Good God! what is the matter?” she said, “You have just -kilt my lady,” said the nurse; “but she’ll be better presently: let her -take her way—let her take her way.” And before Calantha could compose -herself, Sir Richard was in her room. She soon saw by his hearty open -countenance, that he was perfectly ignorant of all that had occurred; -and to keep him so, was now her earnest endeavour. But she was unused -to deceit: all her attempts at it were forced: it was not in her nature; -and pride alone, not better feeling prevented its existence. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that -he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where -he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with -his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he -performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then -assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day -at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had -been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of -joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told -her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with -the children, if all continued tranquil in those quarters. She spoke -this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her -whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had -been accustomed, that he could not but observe it. - -Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll -be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children, -telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.” -“He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my -gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow -for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want -no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will -you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is -the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this -seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “Clarence Glenarvon,” replied the -boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,” -said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away. -“Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have -the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted -the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross -the rest of the day. - -Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat -at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle. -It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was -not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch -Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred; -but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred -without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her from its -consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable -to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved, -without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill -conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead -of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance, -she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which -is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt -for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she -gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her -aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained -her one hour from Glenarvon. - -On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning -Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of -dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a name too horrible -to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room; -and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of -passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found -a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,” -she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.” -Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or -their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom, -and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with -Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too, -inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now -must consider herself wholly unfit. - -But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s. -“My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his -mother.” And she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme -astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She -was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known -lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused -from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate -exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s -request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. -But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she -said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have -seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” -repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself -to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The -Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no -answer; but desired her maid to take it away, and leave her. She did -not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message, -was in tears. - -Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a -sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s -past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few -words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they -were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving -misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot -conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will -not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will -make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the -moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it -may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from -reflection; but it will overtake you when too late to recall the emotions -of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high -ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you -felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true, -how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and -you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder, -then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned -every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to -stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never -believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public -dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent, -it is not yet too late.” - -“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter: -“it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with the agony of her passionate -grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not -stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious, -and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death -of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my -aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She -never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave.... -These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony. -Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope -that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.” - -The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the -dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered -her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be -repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge, to upbraid, -villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain. -She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her -mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go -not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had -best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at -last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite -lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much -agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.” - -“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped -her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not. -“I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said. -“I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to -behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and God reward -you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You -will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from -you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind -to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no: -I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see -him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....” -“Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate, -or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you -will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest -impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother, -at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her -hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said -Mrs. Seymour. “I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will -never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single -words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.” -“I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing -herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave -you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of -them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha. - -After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard, -without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good -emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of -contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called -away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the -greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing the company, -at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune -to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured; -and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very -devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the -children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any -consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited, -the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone, -informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to -Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none -of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these -goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend -upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change -your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see, -at hearing good English spoken to you; but I am not one who can talk -all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the -road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think -no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green -ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing -them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old -England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at -the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for -all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when -the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about -way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in -a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not -let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes; -and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will not bear with these -proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.” - -“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this -unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from -this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here. -Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell -your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure -that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than -Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it -with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir -Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent -door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he -advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he -had not expected, left him, exclaiming as she went, “you have driven me -to this: tell them you have done it”.... - - * * * * * - -In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment -had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain -the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle -presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was -indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was -given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs. -Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the -enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken -unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon -and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and -so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibition every place was -searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success. - -Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little -boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood -opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed -lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there -would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;” -sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion -and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for -her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must -say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs -were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at -first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse, -first recovering. “Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those -d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking -gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at -all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon -him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept -more audibly than before. - -“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering -her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. -Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning -sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she -received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply -and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to -her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all -others of bitterness. The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented -his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I -know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never -more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after -such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every -sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her -children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the -child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware. -Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to -all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she -will yet return.” - -Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her -she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she -entertained. “Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady -Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to -comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her -in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her -feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The -Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her, -receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know -she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will -receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure -that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus. -Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would -you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh! -she is not there,” said the Duke. “She never will act in a manner we -must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most -ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony -around her. - -The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—_all_ -else I can forgive.” - - -END OF VOL. II. - - -LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 2 (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. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Glenarvon, Volume 2 (of 3)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Caroline Lamb</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 16, 2022 [eBook #68773]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>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)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***</div> - -<div class="tnbox"> -<p class="center"> -<b>Transcriber’s Note:</b> -</p> -<p> - Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have - been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. -</p> - -<p>The following are possible misspellings:</p> -<ul class="none"> - <li>affright</li> - <li>agressors</li> - <li>Annabel, Anabel</li> - <li>barouche, barouch</li> - <li>concientious</li> - <li>contemn</li> - <li>controul</li> - <li>Costoly, Costolly, Costally</li> - <li>ecstasy, ecstacy</li> - <li>encrease, increase</li> - <li>extrame</li> - <li>faltered, faultered</li> - <li>Glenaa, Glanaa</li> - <li>ideotsy</li> - <li>impassioned, empassioned</li> - <li>insense</li> - <li>intreated, entreated</li> - <li>irresistably</li> - <li>mediately</li> - <li>Mowbray, Mowbrey</li> - <li>pallaver</li> - <li>rouze, rouse</li> - <li>secresy</li> - <li>stedfast</li> - <li>Trelawney, Trelawny</li> - <li>villify</li> - <li>vinyards</li> -</ul> -</div> - -<h1>GLENARVON.</h1> - -<hr class="p4" /> - -<p class="center p4"> -IN THREE VOLUMES. -</p> - -<p class="center"> -VOL. II. -</p> - -<hr class="p4" /> - -<p class="center p4"> -LONDON: -</p> -<p class="center space_above"> -PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, -</p> -<hr class="l5" /> -<p class="center"> -1816. -</p> - -<p class="center p4 s08"> -London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,<br /> -13, Poland Street. -</p> - -<hr class="p2" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="poetry-container p2"> -<div class="poem"> -<p><span lang='it'>Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme</span></p> -<p><span lang='it'>Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.</span></p> -</div></div> -</div> -<hr class="p2" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER I. -</h2> - -<p> -In the morning Calantha beheld crowds -of discontented catholics who thronged -the outer courts waiting to see her father. -Petitions for redress were thrown in at -the windows; and whilst they were at -breakfast, Sir Everard entering, without -even waiting to see who was present, -asked eagerly if the Duke was at home: -he, at the same moment gave a huge paper -closely written, into the hands of one of -the servants, desiring it to be instantly -delivered to the Duke; “and tell him, -sir,” vociferated the doctor, “it is my -case written out clear, as he commanded—the -one I had the honour to present to -him t’other day, when he had not leisure -to look upon it:” then turning round, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_4' href='#Page_4'>4</a></span> -and seeing Calantha, “By my soul,” he -exclaimed, “if here ain’t my own dear -Lady Calantha; and God be praised Madam, -you are come amongst us; for the -devil and all is broke loose since you’ve -been away. Let’s look at you: well, and -you are as tall and handsome as ever; but -I—Oh! Lady Calantha Delaval, begging -your pardon, what a miserable wretch am -I become. Lord help me, and deliver -me. Lord help us all, in unmerited affliction.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha had not heard of Sir Everard’s -misfortunes; and was really afraid to ask -him what had occurred. He held her -hand, and wept so audibly, that she already -saw some of those present turning -away, for fear they should not be able to -conceal their laughter: his strange gestures -were indeed a hard trial. “Be pacified, -calm yourself my good Doctor,” said Mrs. -Seymour, giving him a chair: “Heaven -forfend,” said Sir Everard: “Nature, -Madam, will have a vent. I am the most -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_5' href='#Page_5'>5</a></span> -miserable man alive: I am undone, you -well know; but Lord! this dear child -knows little if any thing about it. Oh! -I am a mere nothing now in the universe.” -Gondimar, with a smile, assured -Sir Everard that could never be the case, -whilst he retained, unimpaired, that full -rotundity of form. “Sir, are you here?” -cried the Doctor, fiercely: “but it is of -small importance. I am no longer the -soft phlegmatic being you left me. I am -a wild beast, Sir—a dangerous animal.—Away -with your scoffs.—I will fight, Sir—murder, -Sir—aye, and smile whilst I -murder.” -</p> - -<p> -There was something in these words -which turned Lady Margaret’s cheeks to -a deadly pale; but the Doctor, who had -sought for forcible expressions alone, -without the least heeding the application, -continued to storm and to rage. “I’m a -man,” he cried, “accustomed to sufferings -and to insult. Would you credit it, -dear Lady Calantha: can you comprehend -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_6' href='#Page_6'>6</a></span> -it?—that lawless gang—those licentious -democrats—those rebellious libertines, -have imposed on the inordinate folly of -my wife and daughters, who, struck mad, -like Agave in the orgies of Bacchus, are -running wild about the country, their -hair dishevelled, their heads ornamented -with green cockades, and Lady St. Clare, -to the shame of her sex and me, the property -of a recruiting serjeant, employed -by one of that nest of serpents at the abbey, -to delude others, and all, I believe, -occasioned by that arch fiend, Glenarvon.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” cried Gerald MacAllain, who -was in attendance at the breakfast table, -“saving your honour’s pardon, the young -Lord of Glenarvon has been the cause of -my two brave boys being saved from the -gallows. I will rather lose my life, than -stand to hear him called an arch fiend.” -“He is one, old Gerald, whether you or -I call him so or no. Witness how, the -other night, he set the rabble with their -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_7' href='#Page_7'>7</a></span> -torches to burning Mr. O’Flarney’s barns, -and stealing his sheep and oxen and all -his goods.” “Och it’s my belief the -rector of Belfont, when he comes, will -speak a word for him thoft,” returned -Gerald MacAllain; “for, save the presence -of the Duke, who is not here to hear me, -he has been our guard and defence all the -while his grace’s honour has been out of -the kingdom.” “Curses light upon him -and his gang,” cried Sir Everard, furiously. -“Are not Miss Laura and Miss Jessica -after him at this very time, and my -pretty niece, my young, my dear Elinor, -and Lady St. Clare, more crazy than all, -is not she following him about as if he -were some god?” -</p> - -<p> -“The whole country are after him,” -cried Gerald MacAllain, enthusiastically: -“it’s a rage, a fashion.” “It’s a phrenzy,” -returned the Doctor,—“a pestilence -which has fallen on the land, and all, it’s -my belief, because the stripling has not -one christian principle, or habit in him: -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_8' href='#Page_8'>8</a></span> -he’s a heathen.” “If it is the young -Glenarvon,” said Gondimar, approaching -the irritated Doctor, “he is my friend.” -“Don’t bring any of your knock me -down arguments to me, Sir. His being -your friend, only gives a blacker shade to -his character, in my opinion.” “Sir, I -hate personal attacks.” “A blow that -hits, Count, and a cap that fits, are sure -to make a sufferer look foolish, excessively -foolish: not but what you did so before. -I never believed in baseness and -malignity till I knew the Count Gondimar.” -“Nor I in arrogance and stupidity, -till I knew Sir Everard.” “Count, -you are the object of my astonishment.” -“And you, Sir, of my derision.” “Italian, -I despise you,” “I should only feel -mortified, if Sir Everard did otherwise.” -“The contempt, Sir, of the meanest, -cannot be a matter of triumph.” “It is -a mark of wisdom, to be proud of the -scorn of fools.” “Passion makes me -mad.” “Sir, you were that before.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_9' href='#Page_9'>9</a></span> -“I shall forget myself.” “I wish you -would permit me to do so.” -</p> - -<p> -“A truce to these quarrels, good -doctor,” said the Duke, who had entered -the room during the latter part of the discussion. -“I have been reading some -papers of a very serious nature; and I -am sorry to say it appears from them -that Sir Everard has very great cause for -his present irritation of mind: he is an -aggrieved man. This Lord Glenarvon -or whatever the young gentleman styles -himself, has acted in a manner not only -unjustifiable, but such as I am afraid will -ultimately lead to his entire ruin. Count -Gondimar, I have often heard you speak -of this unfortunate young man, with -more than common interest. Could not -you make use of your friendship and intimacy -with him, to warn him of the danger -of his present conduct, and lead him -from the society of his worthless associates. -He seems to be acting under the -influence of a mad infatuation.” Gondimar -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_10' href='#Page_10'>10</a></span> -assured the Duke, that he had no sort of -influence with the young Lord. “Read -these papers, at your leisure,” said the -Duke: “they are statements, you will find, -of a number of outrages committed by -himself and his followers, on people -highly respectable and utterly defenceless. -For the common follies of youth, -there is much excuse; but nothing can -palliate repeated acts of licentious wickedness -and unprovoked cruelty. I am -inclined to believe these accounts are -much exaggerated; but the list of grievances -is large; and the petitioners for redress -are many of them my most worthy -and long-tried servants, at the head of -whom O’Flarney’s name is to be found.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, my Lord,—mine is at the head -of the list,” cried the doctor; “and in -every other part of it, no injuries can be -equal to mine. What are barns, pigs, firearms, -compared to a father’s wrongs—a -husband’s injuries. Ah, consider my -case first. Restore Miss St. Clare, and I’ll -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_11' href='#Page_11'>11</a></span> -be pacified. Why do I raise laughter -by my cry? It is my niece, my favourite -child, who has been taken from me.” -“Pray explain to me seriously, Sir,” -said Lady Augusta, approaching the doctor, -with much appearance of interest, -“how came your family to fall into the -unfortunate situation to which you allude?” -“How came they,” said the -Count? “can you ask, when you see Sir -Everard at the head of it?” “Madam,” -said the Doctor with equal solemnity, -“this momentous crisis has been approaching -some time. St. Clara, as we -called her, my most lovely and interesting -Elinor’s affections have long been -seduced. We all knew, lamented and -concealed the circumstance. The old -lady’s conduct, however, was quite an -unexpected blow. But since they took to -their nocturnal rambles to St. Mary’s, St. -Alvin’s, and all the saints around, their -sanctity has not been much mended that -I see, and their wits are fairly overset. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_12' href='#Page_12'>12</a></span> -As to my girls, I really feel for them: -my own disgrace I can easily support: -but oh my Elinor!” -</p> - -<p> -“What nocturnal meetings have taken -place at St. Mary’s and St. Alvin’s?” said -Lady Trelawney, with a face of eager curiosity. -“The discontented flock together -in shoals,” said the Doctor, indignantly, -“till by their machinations, they -will overturn the State. At Belfont, opposite -my very window,—aye, even in -that great square house which Mr. Ochallavan -built, on purpose to obstruct Lady -St. Clare’s view, have they not set up a -library? The Lord help me. And was it -not there I first saw that accursed pamphlet -Lord Glenarvon wrote; which rhapsody -did not I myself immediately answer? -Lady Calantha, strange things have occurred -since your departure. Captain -Kennedy, commander of the district, -can’t keep his men. Cattle walk out -of the paddocks of themselves: women, -children, pigs, wander after Glenarvon: -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_13' href='#Page_13'>13</a></span> -and Miss Elinor, forgetful of her old -father, my dear mad brother, her aunt, -her religion, and all else, to the scandal -of every one in their senses, heads the -rabble. They have meetings under -ground, and over ground; out at sea, and -in the caverns: no one can stop the -infection; the poison in the fountain of -life; and our very lives and estates are -no longer in safety. You know not, -you cannot know, what work we have had -since you last left us.” Sir Everard -paused, and then taking a couple of -pamphlets from his pocket, entreated -Calantha to peruse them. “Cast your -eye over these,” he said: “I wrote them -in haste; they are mere sketches of my -sentiments; but I am going to publish. -Oh! when you see what I am now going -to publish. It is intituled a refutation of -all that has or may be said by the disaffected, -in or out of the kingdom.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_14' href='#Page_14'>14</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER II. -</h2> - - -<p> -The party at the castle had postponed -their visit to St. Alvin Priory till the feast -of St. Kathereen and St. Mary, which -in that neighbourhood was always celebrated -with much observance. A fair -was held upon the downs, in honour -of these two martyrs. The rocks near -which the ruins of the convent stood, -were called the Black Sisters, and it was -there, and in the Wizzard’s Glen, which -stretched from the top to the foot of the -mountain, that the meetings of the discontented -had been held. The day proved -fair; and at an early hour the carriages -and horses were in attendance. Mrs. Seymour -and many others declined being of -the party; but Lady Margaret took Gondimar’s -arm with a smile of good humour, -which she could at times put on. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_15' href='#Page_15'>15</a></span> -Buchanan drove Calantha in his barouch. -Sir Everard rode by Calantha’s side on a -lowly white palfrey, as if to protect her. -Lady Mandeville was with her; and Lady -Trelawney took Sophia and Lady Augusta -Selwyn in her carriage. The rest of the -gentlemen were some on horseback and -some in curricles. -</p> - -<p> -The whole country smiled around. -There were ringers, and pipers, and hurlers -upon the down. The cliff, towards -the sea, was covered with booths and -tents. Flocks, herds and horses had -been brought from far for sale, ornamented -with ribbands; green being the -favourite colour. Scarcely ever was witnessed -a scene more gay. This, and the -vessels laden with fish, crowding into the -harbour below, and the high mountains -beyond, struck even the Italian, whose -eyes had been accustomed to all that -nature can produce of picturesque and -majestic. The beauty of the girls, with -their long blue mantles thrown aside -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_16' href='#Page_16'>16</a></span> -from their shoulders, their dark hair fastened -behind with a knot of ribband, was -the subject of discussion. Comparisons -of the difference of form between one -nation and another arose. All descended -from their carriages and horses. Lady -Mandeville repeated poetry; Gondimar -became sentimental; Buchanan looked -at the horses, enquired their prices, and -soon joined the hurlers, in whose combat -he grew so much interested, that no one -could draw him from thence until the -moment when they left the fair, where -they had remained till they were all -much fatigued. -</p> - -<p> -“What are you laughing at so immensely?” -cried Lady Augusta Selwyn, -approaching Lord Trelawney, who was -nearly enclosed in a circle of some hundreds. -The moment Lady Augusta approached, -with a courtesy seldom seen -but in Ireland, the crowd made way for -her. “I am listening,” said he, “to a -preacher—a most capital preacher, whom -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_17' href='#Page_17'>17</a></span> -they call Cowdel O’Kelly. Only observe -him: what a rogue it is, with that hypocrite -mildness of manner, that straight -black hair, that presbyterian stiffness -and simplicity.” “But what is he saying?” -enquired Lady Augusta. The -preacher, standing upon a cart, was delivering -an exhortation in a very emphatic -manner, to a vast concourse of attentive -hearers. The presence of the party from -the Castle had no effect upon him: he was -inveighing against the insolence of his -superiors in rank, and pleading in favour -of the rights of man. -</p> - -<p> -When he had concluded his discourse, -the crowd dispersed, some laughing at -him, and some much edified by his discourse. -O’Kelly looked after them:—“That -is the way of the world,” he said: -“it gets all it can from a man, and then it -leaves him; but all that is, is for the best; -therefore, amen, your honours; so be it.” -Lord Trelawney laughed to an excess. -“Your name,” said he, “I take it, it is Cowdel -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_18' href='#Page_18'>18</a></span> -O’Kelly.” “If you take it to be my -name, your honour can’t be any ways -wrong in calling me by it; but I call -myself citizen Wailman.” “And why -the devil, my honest friend, do you call -yourself so?” “To please myself, and -trick my master.” “And pray who is -your master?” “When I know that, -I’ll let you know.” “What! not know -your master?” “Why what master -knows his servant? There’s nothing extraordinary -in that, my Lord.” “But -pray, my good citizen Wailman, where -do you live, and where does your master -live?”—“I live where I can, your honour; -and as to my master, every one knows he -lives under ground, in the family vault.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is he dead then, or what can he be -doing under ground?” said Lady Trelawney. -“Looking for friends, Miss, I -believe; for he has none, that I see, above -board.” “I am sure this is a rebel in -disguise,” whispered Lady Trelawney. -Her Lord laughed. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_19' href='#Page_19'>19</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -A beautiful little boy now pushing his -way through the crowd, plainly pronounced -the words, “O’Kelly come -home; I am very tired.” The man, hastily -descending from the cart, called him -his young prince—his treasure; and -lifted him up in his arms. “He is about -the same age as Henry Mowbray,” said -Calantha, “and very like him. What -is your name, my pretty child?” “Clare -of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should -by rights be Lord Clare—should it not, -O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled and -put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s -mouth, who kissed them, and making a -slight bow, would have retired. “What, -are you going? will you not stay a moment?” -“I fear I intrude too much on -your honour’s time.” “Not in the least—not -in the least, good Mister Wailman; -pray stay a little longer.” “Why, fair -and honest, if I don’t intrude too much -on your time, my lord, you do on mine; -and so your servant.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_20' href='#Page_20'>20</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -“I really believe he belongs to the -abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who had -re-entered her barouche, and was driving -with the rest of the party, towards St. -Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along -by the cliff, in the same direction we are -going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady -Augusta; “but to be sure no more like -Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in -the seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, -pray look,” interrupted Frances: “I assure -you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s -wife, and Lauriana and Jessica are with -her. I am certain of it,” she continued, -throwing herself nearly out of the carriage -to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney -was extremely diverted. “And -there is the recruiting serjeant: only -observe the manner in which they are -habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest -in the most flaunting attire, singing in -chorus the song of liberty, covered -with green ribbands, were walking in -company with a vast number of young -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_21' href='#Page_21'>21</a></span> -men, most of them intoxicated, and all -talking and laughing loudly. Calantha -begged Buchanan to stop the carriage, -that she also might see them pass; which -they did, marching to the sound of the -drum and fife: but her heart sickened -when she saw the beautiful recluse of -Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came -near: she raised her full black eye, and -gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha. -</p> - -<p> -It was the same face she had seen a -few years back at the convent: but alas, -how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson -of her cheek, the deep dark brown -of the wild ringlets which waved above -her brow, the bold masculine manners -and dress she had assumed, contrasting -with the slender beauty of her upright -form. She was drest in uniform, and -walked by the side of a young man, -whose pale, thoughtful countenance -struck every one. Elinor appeared desperate -and utterly hardened: her presence -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_22' href='#Page_22'>22</a></span> -inspired Calantha with a mixed -feeling of horror and commiseration, -which Lady St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, -and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and -clumsy personages turned into disgust. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh did you behold her?—did you -see my poor deluded Elinor?” cried Sir -Everard, riding up to Calantha, as she still -gazed from the open carriage upon the -procession: “did you see my unfortunate -girls?” “I did, indeed,” said Lady -Avondale, the tears springing into her -eyes: “I saw them and stopped; for -it occurred to me, that, perhaps, I might -speak to them—might yet save them.” -“And would you have condescended -so much? Oh! this is more than I -dared ask or hope.” Saying which, -the Doctor wept, as was his custom, -and Buchanan laughed. “You are so -good,” continued he: “you were in tears -when you saw your former playmates -disgracing themselves, and their sex, -but in the rest of the carriages I heard -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_23' href='#Page_23'>23</a></span> -nothing but jesting, and loud laughter. -And oh! would you credit it, can you -believe it, Lady St. Clare had the audacity -to drop me a courtesy as she -passed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was the tall young man, who was -walking by the side of Elinor, Cyrel -Linden?” “It was the same,” cried the -Doctor—“gone mad like the rest, though -they tell me it is all for the love of Miss -Alice; and that since her loss, he is -grown desperate, and cares not what -becomes of him. They’ll be hanged, -however; that is one consolation—Lady -St. Clare, as well as the rest. Indeed,” -cried he, drawing closer, “I am credibly -informed that the officers of justice have -an eye upon them, and wait only to obtain -further evidence of their treasonable -practices, to take them up.” During this -discourse, the carriage drove slowly up -the hill; but soon proceeding at a brisker -pace, the doctor was obliged to draw in -his steed and retire. The party now entered -the park. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_24' href='#Page_24'>24</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER III. -</h2> - - -<p> -Belfont Abbey and St. Alvin’s ruined -Priory appeared in view. The ivy -climbed around the turrets; and the grass -grew upon the paved courts, where desolation -and long neglect prevailed. At a -distance from the convent, a ruin, a lonely -pile stood upon the cliff in solitary -grandeur. Not a tree, nor any appearance -of cultivation was seen around: barren -moors, the distant mountains, and the -vast ocean, every where filled the eye. -The servants rang at the bell of the outer -gate: it resounded through the vaulted -passages with a long repeated echo.—A -boy immediately answered the summons: -with a look of stupid astonishment, -he waited in expectation of their -commands. -</p> - -<p> -Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_25' href='#Page_25'>25</a></span> -might see the Priory. “I suppose so,” was -his reply. And without further preamble, -they alighted. “It must be rather melancholy -to live here during the winter -months,” said Calantha to the boy, as -she passed him. “And summer too,” -he answered. “We are told,” said Frances, -“that this Priory is haunted by -ghosts: have you ever seen any?” He shook -his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’ -please your honour,” he said; “but I -never meddle with them, so they never -comes after me as I see.” “Are you -going to shew us the house?” cried Sir -Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do -you keep us waiting in this dark passage? -go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding -towards an inner apartment, -knocked at the door, calling to the -housekeeper, and telling her that there -was company below who wished to take -the round of the castle. The old dame -courtesying low in a mysterious manner -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_26' href='#Page_26'>26</a></span> -led the way: the boy immediately retreated. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha was much tired; her spirits -had undergone a severe shock; and the -sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was -still called, made an impression upon her -she scarcely could account for. The gaiety -of the dresses, the fineness of the evening, -the chorus of voices laughing and -singing as they marched along, indifferent -apparently to their future fate—perhaps -hardened and insensible to it—all made -an impression which it is impossible the -description of the scene can give; but -long it dwelt in her remembrance. Unused -to check herself in any feeling, she -insisted upon remaining in front of the -Castle, whilst the rest of the party explored -its secret mysteries and recesses. -“I am sure you are frightened,” said Lord -Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have -more cause than we: it looks very gloomy -without, as well as within.” -</p> - -<p> -They went, and she remained upon the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_27' href='#Page_27'>27</a></span> -cliff, watching the calm sea, and the boats -at a distance, as they passed and repassed -from the fair. “And can a few short years -thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, -“was St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? -can one moment of error thus have changed -her? Oh it is not possible. Long before -the opportunity for evil presented itself, -her uncontrouled passions must have -misled her, and her imagination, wild -and lawless, must have depraved her -heart. Alice was innocent: he who first -seduced her from peace, deceived her; -but St. Clara was not of this character. -I understand—I think I understand the -feelings which impelled her to evil. Her -image haunts me. I tremble with apprehension. -Something within seems to -warn me, and to say that, if I wander -from virtue like her, nothing will check -my course—all the barriers, that others -fear to overstep, are nothing before me. -God preserve me from sin! the sight of -St. Clara fills me with alarm. Avondale, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_28' href='#Page_28'>28</a></span> -where art thou? save me. My course is -but just begun: who knows whither the -path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned -will, has been hitherto, my -only law.” -</p> - -<p> -Upon the air at that moment she heard -the soft notes of a flute. She listened -attentively:—it ceased. There are times -when the spirit is troubled—when the -mind, after the tumult of dissipated and -active life, requires rest and seeks to be -alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us -so fast, that we hardly know how to bear -them; conscience reflects upon every -former action; and the heart within -trembles, as if in dread of approaching -evil. The scene around was calculated -to inspire every serious reflection. The -awful majesty of the ruined building, ill -accorded with the loud laugh and the -jests of the merry party now entering its -walls. Once those walls had been, perhaps -inhabited by beings thoughtless and -gay. Where were they now? had they -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_29' href='#Page_29'>29</a></span> -memory of the past? knowledge of the -present? or were they cold, silent, insensible -as those deserted scenes? how -perishable is human happiness! what -recollection has the mind of any former -state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, -scarce visible, be worth either solicitude or -anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” -said Calantha to herself. “Our actions -are unobserved by any but ourselves; let -us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; -death only returns us to the dust from -whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, -all occupations, are vain: to forget is the -first great science; and to enjoy, the only -real object of life. What happiness is -here below, but in love.” -</p> - -<p> -So reasoned the unhappy victim of -a false judgment and strong passion. -I was blest; I am so no more. The -world is a wilderness to me; and all that -is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... -Whilst yet indulging these fallacious -opinions—whilst gazing on the western -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_30' href='#Page_30'>30</a></span> -turret, and watching the shadows as they -varied on the walls, she again heard the -soft notes of music. It seemed like the -strains of other times, awakening in the -heart remembrances of some former -state long passed and changed. Hope, -love and fond regret, answered alternately -to the call. It was in the season of the -year when the flowers bloomed: it was -on a spot immortalized in ancient story, -for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha -turned her eyes upwards and -beheld the blue vault of heaven without -a cloud. The sea was of that glossy -transparency—that shining brightness, the -air of that serene calm that, had it been -during the wintry months, some might -have thought the halcyon was watching -upon her nest, and breathing her soft and -melancholy minstrelsy through the air. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. -She felt as if in a dream, and, hastily -advancing to the spot from whence -the sounds proceeded, she there beheld a -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_31' href='#Page_31'>31</a></span> -youth, for he had not the form or the -look of manhood, leaning against the -trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon -a flute, or breathing, as if from a suffering -heart, the sweet melody of his untaught -song. He started not when she -approached:—he neither saw nor heard -her—so light was her airy step, so fixed -were his eyes and thoughts. She gazed -for one moment upon his countenance—she -marked it. It was one of those faces -which, having once beheld, we never -afterwards forget. It seemed as if the -soul of passion had been stamped and -printed upon every feature. The eye -beamed into life as it threw up its dark -ardent gaze, with a look nearly of inspiration, -while the proud curl of the upper -lip expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; -yet, even mixed with these fierce -characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy -and dejection shaded and softened -every harsher expression. Such a countenance -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_32' href='#Page_32'>32</a></span> -spoke to the heart, and filled it -with one vague yet powerful interest—so -strong, so undefinable, that it could not -easily be overcome. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha felt the power, not then -alone, but evermore. She felt the empire, -the charm, the peculiar charm, those -features—that being must have for her. -She could have knelt and prayed to heaven -to realize the dreams, to bless the -fallen angel in whose presence she at that -moment stood, to give peace to that soul, -upon which was plainly stamped the heavenly -image of sensibility and genius. -The air he had played was wild and -plaintive: he changed it to one more -harsh. She now distinctly heard the -words he sung: -</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>This heart has never stoop’d its pride</p> -<p class="i1"> To slavish love, or woman’s wile;</p> -<p>But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d</p> -<p class="i1"> Her craftiest art and brightest smile. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_33' href='#Page_33'>33</a></span></p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>This mind has trac’d its own career,</p> -<p class="i1"> Nor follow’d blind, where others trod;</p> -<p>Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear,</p> -<p class="i1"> E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Then hope not now to touch with love,</p> -<p class="i1"> Or in its chains a heart to draw,</p> -<p>All earthly spells have fail’d to move;</p> -<p class="i1"> And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe:</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>A heart, that like some mountain vast,</p> -<p class="i1"> And cold with never-melting snow,</p> -<p>Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast</p> -<p class="i1"> A look away on aught below.</p> -</div></div></div> - -<p> -An emotion of interest—something she -could not define, even to herself, had impelled -Calantha to remain till the song -was ended: a different feeling now -prompted her to retire in haste. She -fled; nor stopped, till she again found -herself opposite the castle gate, where she -had been left by her companions. -</p> - -<p> -While yet dwelling in thought upon -the singular being she had one moment -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_34' href='#Page_34'>34</a></span> -beheld—whilst asking herself what meant -this new, this strange emotion, she found -another personage by her side, and recognized, -through a new disguise, her morning’s -acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, -otherwise called Cowdel O’Kelly. This -rencontre gave an immediate turn to -her thoughts. She enquired of him -if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey? -“No, madam,” he answered, “but -of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him -to inform her, whether any one resided -there who sung in the manner she then -described. “Sure, then, I sing myself -in that manner,” said the man, “if that’s -all; and beside me, there be some who -howl and wail, the like you never heard. -Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it -must have moved your heart to tears.” -</p> - -<p> -“Explain yourself,” said Calantha -eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is the -same I have seen and heard. Tell me -what sorrows have befallen him?” “Sorrows! -why enough too, to plague any -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_35' href='#Page_35'>35</a></span> -man. Has he not got the distemper?” -“The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did -he not catch it sleeping in our dog-kennel, -as he stood petrified there one night, -kilt by the cold? When my Lord found -him, he had not a house to his head then, -it’s my belief; but now indeed he’s got -one, he’s no wiser, having, as I think, no -head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise -you how he howls and barks, whenever -the moon shines bright. But here -be those who fell on me at the fair. In -truth I believe they be searching for the -like of you.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_36' href='#Page_36'>36</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER IV. -</h2> - - -<p> -The party from the castle now joined -Calantha. They were in evident discomfiture. -Their adventures had been rather -less romantic than Lady Avondale’s, -and consequently had not given them -such refined pleasure; for while she was -attending to a strain of such enchanting -sweetness, they had been forcibly detained -in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly -listening to very different music. -</p> - -<p> -The housekeeper having led them -through the galleries, the ladies, escorted -by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney -and Sir Everard, turned to examine some -of the portraits, fretted cornices and high -casements, till the dame who led the -way, calling to them, shewed them a -large dreary apartment hung with tapestry, -and requested them to observe the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_37' href='#Page_37'>37</a></span> -view from the window. “It is here,” -she said, “in this chamber, that John de -Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of -his enemy and died.” A loud groan, at -that moment, proceeded from an inner -chamber. “That must be the ghost,” -said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. -The dame, terrified at Lady Trelawney’s -terror, returned the shriek by a piercing -yell, rushed from the room, closing the -heavy door in haste, which fastened with -a spring lock, and left the company not -a little disconcerted. -</p> - -<p> -“We are a good number, however,” -cried Frances, taking fast hold of her -Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. -“We certainly can match the ghost in -point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant -to be confined here till the old woman -recovers her senses.” Groans most -piteous and terrible interrupted this remark—groans -uttered as if in the agony -of a soul ill at rest. Sophia grasped Sir -Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_38' href='#Page_38'>38</a></span> -looked at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret -disdainfully returned the glance. “I -fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly -have this affair examined. I shall speak -to my brother the moment I return: -there is possibly some evil concealed -which requires investigation.” “Hark! -I hear a step,” said Frances. “If I were -not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord -Trelawney, “faith, I would climb up to -that small grated window.” -</p> - -<p> -“I fear no ghosts,” replied Count Gondimar, -smiling. “The sun has not set, -therefore I defy them thus.—Only take care -and hold the stool upon the table, that I -may not break my neck.” “What do you -see?” “A large room lighted by two -candles:—would it were but a lamp.” -“Truly this is a fair beginning.—What -is the matter now?—why what the devil -is the matter?—If you come down so -precipitately I cannot support you. Help! -the Count is literally fainting.” It was -true. “A sudden dizziness—a palpitation”—He -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_39' href='#Page_39'>39</a></span> -only uttered these words and -fell; a ghastly paleness overspread his -face; the cold damps stood upon his -forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“This is the most unfortunate confirmation -of the effects of terror upon an -evil conscience,” exclaimed Sir Everard, -“that ever I beheld. I’ll be bound there -is not an Irish or English man here, that -would have been so frightened.” “It’s a -dizziness, a mere fainting fit,” said Gondimar, -“Let me feel his pulse,” cried -Sir Everard. “Well, doctor?” “Well, -sir, he has no pulse left:—give him air.” -“I am better now,” said Gondimar, with -a smile, as he revived. “Was I ill -enough for this?”—Sir Everard called -in. Lord Trelawney’s curiosity engaged -him to climb to the grated window; but -the candles had been extinguished, probably, -for all beyond the window was -utter darkness. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst some were assisting the Count, -the rest had been vainly endeavouring to -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_40' href='#Page_40'>40</a></span> -open the door. A key was now heard on -the outside; and the solemn boy entering, -said to Lady Margaret, “I am come to -tell your honour, that our dame being -taken with the qualms and stericks, is no -ways able of shewing you any further -into the Priory.” “I trust, however, -that you will immediately shew us out of -it, Sir,” said Gondimar. “It not being -her fault, but her extrame weakness,” -continued the boy: “she desires me to -hope your honours will excuse her.” -“We will certainly excuse her; but,” -added Lady Margaret, “I must insist -upon knowing from her, or from some of -you, the cause of the groans we heard, -and what all those absurd stories of -ghosts can arise from. I shall send an -order for the house to undergo an immediate -examination, so you had better tell -all you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then, indeed, there be no mischief -in them groans,” said the boy, who appeared -indifferent whether the house were -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_41' href='#Page_41'>41</a></span> -examined or not. “It’s only that gentleman -as howls so, who makes them -queer noises. I thought ye’d heard something -stranger than that. There be more -singular noises than he makes, many’s the -time.” “Sirrah, inform me who inhabits -this d——d Priory?” said Count -Gondimar. “What, you’re recovered -from your qualms and stericks, I perceive, -though the old dame is so ill with -them?” “No jesting, Sir Everard. I -must sift this affair to the bottom. Come, -Sir, answer straightly, who inhabits this -Priory?” “Sure, Sir, indeed none as -can get a bed in the Abbey,” “You -evade, young one: you evade my enquiry: -to the point; be plain.” “That he can’t -help being,” said Lord Trelawney. “Proceed, -Sir, lead us as fast as possible out of -these cold damp galleries; but talk as you -go.” “Like the cuckoo.” “Lord Trelawney, -your jests are mighty pleasant; -but I have peculiar reasons for my enquiries.” -“And I for my jokes.” “Come, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_42' href='#Page_42'>42</a></span> -Sirrah, proceed: I shall say no more at -present.” “Do you like being here?” -said Lady Trelawney, taking up the question. -“Well enough,” returned the stupid -boy. “I hear,” continued Frances, -“there are some who play upon the harp -in the night, and sing so, that the country -people round, say they are spell-bound.” -“Oh musha! there be strange things -heard in these here old houses: one must -not always believe all one hears.” -</p> - -<p> -Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, -were engaged in deep discourse. “I can -hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most -true—most terribly true,” said Gondimar. -“I will question the boy myself,” -she cried; “he is subtle with all that appearance -of clownish simplicity; but we -shall gather something from him. Now, -Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, -and do you lead these gentlemen and ladies -into the fresh air. Lady Augusta -says she longs to behold living objects -and day-light. I shall soon overtake -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_43' href='#Page_43'>43</a></span> -you. Come here. I think, from what I -have gathered, that St. Alvin Priory has -not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon -family since the year ****: in that -case, who has had charge of it?” “None -but Mr. Mackenzie and Dame since the old -Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young -Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality -in these parts till now; but about -three years and better, the young Lord -sent some of his friends here, he being -in Italy; and as they only asked for the -ould ruin, and did not wish to meddle -with the castle, they have done their will -there. The steward lets them bide.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have they been here above three -years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve not, -your honour; for sometimes they’ve all -been here, and sometimes there’s not a -soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, -there’s been no peace for them.” “Can -you tell me any of their names?” “All, -I believe; for isn’t there one calls himself -Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_44' href='#Page_44'>44</a></span> -master, the real Lord; but he cares not to -have it thought: only he’s such a manner -with him, one can’t but think it. Then -there’s Mister O’Kelly, he as calls himself -Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and -there’s another as sings, but has no name, -a female; and there’s a gentleman cries -and sobs, and takes care of a baby; -and his name, I think, is Macpherson; -then there’s the old one as howls; and -Mrs. Kelly O’Grady; and St. Clara, the -prophetess; besides many more as come -to feast and revel here.” “And what -right have they to be here?” “Why to -be sure, then, they’ve not any right at -all; that’s what we are all talking of; except -them letters from my Lord; and -they all live a strange wicked life under -ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s -the reason, for some time past, that young -gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s -known as to what’s gone with -him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! -the young master’s here, and the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_45' href='#Page_45'>45</a></span> -only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a -christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” -“Ah! sure your honour knows -him.” -</p> - -<p> -Having reached the front porch, by the -time the boy had gone through his examination, -Lady Margaret perceiving -O’Kelly, sent for him, and tried, vainly, -to make him answer her enquiries more -satisfactorily; which not being able to -accomplish, she set forth to return home, -in an extreme ill humour. Lord Trelawney -rallied her about the ghost. Casting -an angry glance at him, she refused positively -to return home in either of the -carriages; saying, she was resolved to -walk back across the cliff, the short way. -Some of the gentlemen proposed escorting -her; but she haughtily refused them, -and desired permission to be a few moments -left to herself. They, therefore, -re-entered their carriages, and returned -without any further event. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha was tired and grave during -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_46' href='#Page_46'>46</a></span> -the drive home; and, what may perhaps -appear strange, she named not her adventure. -“It is himself—it must be.” -“Who?” said Lady Mandeville. Confused -at having betrayed her own -thoughts,—“Young Linden,” she cried, -looking out of the carriage; and then -feigned sleep, that she might think over -again and again on that countenance, that -voice, that being, she had one moment -seen. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_47' href='#Page_47'>47</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER V. -</h2> - - -<p> -Lady Margaret walking hastily off, -had arrived near the Convent of St. -Mary, as the last ray of the setting sun -blazed in the west, and threw its golden -light over the horizon. Close to the -convent, is built the chapel where the -young Marquis and all the family of Altamonte -are interred. It stands upon a -high barren cliff, separated by a branch -of the sea from the village of Belfont, to -which any one may pass by means of the -ferry below. To the north of the chapel, -as far as the eye can trace, barren -heaths and moors, and the distant view -of Belfont and St. Alvin Priory, present a -cheerless aspect; while the other side -displays the rich valley of Delaval, its -groves, gardens and lake, with the adjacent -wood. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_48' href='#Page_48'>48</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -At this spot Lady Margaret arrived, as -has been said, at sun-set. She thought -she had been alone; but she heard a step -closely following her: she turned round, -and, to her extreme surprise, beheld a -man pursuing her, and, just at that moment, -on the point of attaining her. His -black brows and eyes were contrasted -with his grizzly hair; his laugh was hollow; -his dress wild and tawdry. If she -stopped for a moment to take breath, he -stopped at the same time; if she advanced -rapidly, he followed. She heard -his steps behind, till passing near the -convent he paused, rending the air with -his groans, and his clenched fist repeatedly -striking his forehead, with all the -appearance of maniac fury, whilst with -his voice he imitated the howling of the -wind. -</p> - -<p> -Terrified, fatigued and oppressed, Lady -Margaret fled into the thickest part of the -wood, and waited till she conceived the -cause of her terror was removed. She soon -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_49' href='#Page_49'>49</a></span> -perceived, however, that the tall figure behind -her was waiting for her reappearance. -She determined to try the swiftness of her -foot, and sought with speed to gain the -ferry:—she durst not look behind:—the -heavy steps of her pursuer gained upon -her:—suddenly she felt his hand upon -her shoulder, as, with a shrill voice and -loud laugh, he triumphed at having overtaken -her. She uttered a piercing shriek; -for on turning round she beheld.... -</p> - -<p> -His name I cannot at present declare; -yet this I will say: it was terrible to her -to gaze upon that eye—so hollow, so wild, -so fearful was its glance. From the sepulchre, -the dead appeared to have arisen -to affright her; and, scarce recovering -from the dreadful vision, with a faltering -step, and beating heart, she broke from -that grasp—that cold hand—that dim-fixed -eye—and gained with difficulty the -hut of the fisherman, who placed her in -safety on the other side of the cliff. -</p> - -<p> -The castle bell had already summoned -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_50' href='#Page_50'>50</a></span> -the family; dinner awaited; and the -duke having repeatedly enquired for -Lady Margaret, was surprised to hear -that she had returned home alone and -after dusk. The servant, who informed -him of this circumstance, said that her -ladyship appeared extremely faint and -tired; that her women attendants had -been called; that they apprehended she -was more ill than she would acknowledge. -He was yet speaking, when, with a blaze -of beauty and even more than her usual -magnificence of dress, she entered, apologised -for the lateness of her appearance, -said the walk was longer than she had -apprehended, and, taking her brother’s -arm, led the way into the dining room. -But soon the effort she had made, proved -too great:—her colour changed repeatedly; -she complained that the noise distracted -her; she scarcely took any part -in the conversation, and retiring early, -sought a few hours’ repose. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Seymour accompanied her out, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_51' href='#Page_51'>51</a></span> -whilst the rest of those whose curiosity -had been much excited in the morning, -narrated their morning adventures and -enquired eagerly concerning Lord Glenarvon’s -character and mode of life. At -the mention of his name, the colour -rushed into Calantha’s face. Was it himself -she had seen?—She was convinced it -was. That countenance verified all that -she had heard against him: it was a full -contradiction to all that Lady Trelawney -had spoken in his favour; it expressed a -capability of evil—a subtlety that led the -eye of a stranger to distrust; but, with -all, it was not easily forgotten. The address -to the people of Ireland which Lady -Avondale had read before with enthusiasm, -she read now with a new, an undefinable -sensation. She drew also those features—that -countenance; and remembered -the air he had sung and the tones of his -voice.—She seemed to dive into the feelings -of a heart utterly different from -what she had ever yet observed: a sort of -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_52' href='#Page_52'>52</a></span> -instinct gave her power at once to penetrate -into its most secret recesses; nor -was she mistaken. She heard, with eager -curiosity, every anecdote narrated of him -by the country esquires and gentry who -dined at the castle; but she felt not surprised -at the inconsistencies and absurdities -repeated. Others discredited what -was said: she believed the worst; yet -still the interest she felt was undiminished. -It is strange: she loved not—she admired -not that countenance; yet, by day, by -night, it pursued her. She could not rest, -nor write, nor read; and the fear of again -seeing it, was greater than the desire of -doing so. She felt assured that it was -Lord Glenarvon:—there was not a doubt -left upon her mind respecting this circumstance. -Mrs. Seymour saw that Calantha -was pre-occupied: she thought that -she was acquainted with the secret which -disturbed Lady Margaret—that horrid secret -which maddened and destroyed her: -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_53' href='#Page_53'>53</a></span> -for, since her adventure at the Priory, -Lady Margaret had been ill. -</p> - -<p> -It was not till after some days retirement, -that she sent for Calantha, and -when she visited her in her own apartment, -she found her silent and trembling. -“Where is your boy?” she said. “He -sleeps: would you that I should bring -him you?” “I do not mean your son: -I mean that minion—that gaudy thing, -you dress up for your amusement—that -fawning insect Zerbellini.” Calantha -shuddered; for she knew that a mother -could not thus speak of her child without -suffering acutely. “Has my pretty Zerbellini -done any thing to deserve such -unkind words from you? If so, I will -chide him for it. Why do you frown? -Zerbellini haste here: make your obeisance -to Lady Margaret.” The boy approached: -Lady Margaret fixed her eyes -steadily upon him: the colour rushed -into her cheek, then left her pale, as the -hue of death. “<i>Oimè si muoja!</i>” exclaimed, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_54' href='#Page_54'>54</a></span> -Zerbellini: “<i>Eccelenza si muoja</i>;” -and he leant forward to support her; but -Lady Margaret moved not. -</p> - -<p> -Many moments passed in entire silence. -At last, starting as if from deep reflection, -“Calantha” she said, “I know your heart -too well to doubt its kindness:—the presence -of this child, will cause the misery of -your father.” “Of my father!” “Do -you not guess wherefore? I read his feelings -yesterday: and can you my child -be less quick in penetrating the sentiments -of those you love? do you not -perceive that Zerbellini is of the very -age and size—your lost—and—lamented -brother would have been? ... and certainly -not unlike the duchess.” She hesitated—paused—recovered -herself. “I -would not for the world have you suggest -this to a human being. I would not -appear to have said—what you, out of -an affectionate regard might—should—have -considered.”—“I am astonished: -you quite amaze me,” replied Calantha; -yet she too well guessed her feelings. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_55' href='#Page_55'>55</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -You heard your father yesterday say, -how necessary it was for him to attend -the general meeting at Belfast: he flies -us to avoid this boy—the likeness—in -short, oblige me, place him at the garden -cottage, or at the Rector of Belfont’s—he -will attend to him. I am told you mean to -leave your children with Mr. Challoner: -if so, he might likewise keep this boy. -His strong resemblance—his age—his -manner—have given me already the -acutest pain.—My brother will never demand -any sacrifice of you;—but I, Lady -Avondale,—I solicit it.—“Shall I be refused”? -“Dearest aunt, can you ask this? -Zerbellini shall be immediately sent -from the castle.” “Oh no: such precipitate -removal would excite curiosity.” -“Well then, allow me to place him, as you -say, under the care of the Rector of Belfont -and his wife—or—” “But how -strange—why—did you never observe -this before?” -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_56' href='#Page_56'>56</a></span> -a hollow tone, “it is the common talk: -every one observes it: every eye fixes itself -upon him, and seems to—to—to—reproach—to-morrow—morn—to-morrow -morning, I must quit this place—business -of importance calls me away—I hope to -see you shortly: I shall return as soon as -possible—perhaps I shall not go.—The -trifle I now suggest, is solely for my -brother’s sake.—If you mention one -word of this to any one, the sacrifice I -ask will lose its value. Above all, if the -Count Gondimar is made a confidant.” -“Fear not: I shall request as of myself, -that Zerbellini may be placed with my -little son: but you cannot think how -much you surprise me. My father has -seen the boy so often; has spoken so frequently -with him; has appeared so perfectly -at his ease.” -</p> - -<p> -“The boy,” said Lady Margaret, “is the -living picture of—in short I have dreamt -a dreadful dream. Shall I confess my -weakness, Calantha: I dreamt last night, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_57' href='#Page_57'>57</a></span> -that I was sitting with a numerous and -brilliant assembly, even in this very castle; -and of a sudden, robed in the white -vestments of an angel, that boy appeared—I -saw his hand closely stealing behind—he -had a dagger in it—oh it made me -sick—and coming towards me—I mean -towards your father—he stabbed him.—These -phantasies shew an ill constitution—but, -for a short time, send the child -away, and do not expose my weakness—do -not love. I have many sorrows—my -nerves are shattered—bear with me—you -know not, and God forbid you should ever -know, what it is to labour under the pressure -of guilt—guilt? aye,—and such as -that brow of innocence, that guileless generous -heart, never can comprehend.” -“My aunt, for God sake, explain yourself.” -Lady Margaret smiled. “Oh -not such guilt either, as to excite such -looks as these: only I have suffered my -heart to wander, child; and I have been -punished.” -</p> - -<p> -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_58' href='#Page_58'>58</a></span> -Calantha was less surprised at this conversation, -from remembering the secret -Gondimar had communicated, than she -otherwise must have been; but she could -not understand what had given rise to -this paroxysm of despair at that particular -moment. A singular circumstance -now occurred, which occasioned infinite -conjecture to all around. Every morning, -as soon as it was light, and every evening -at dusk, a tall old man in a tattered garb, -with a wild and terrible air, seated himself -in front of the castle windows, -making the most lamentable groans, and -crying out in an almost unintelligible -voice, “Woe, on woe, to the family of -Altamonte.” The Duke was no sooner -apprised of this circumstance, than he -ordered the supposed maniac to be taken -up; but Lady Margaret implored, entreated -and even menaced, till she obtained -permission from her brother to -give this wretched object his liberty. -</p> - -<p> -Such an unusual excess of charity—such -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_59' href='#Page_59'>59</a></span> -sudden, and violent commiseration -of a being who appeared to have no other -view than the persecution and annoyance -of her whole family, was deemed strange; -but when they no longer were molested -by the presence of the fanatic, who had -denounced their ruin, they ceased to converse -about him, and soon the whole affair -was forgotten. Calantha indeed remembered -it; but a thousand new -thoughts diverted her attention, and a -stronger interest led her from it. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_60' href='#Page_60'>60</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER VI. -</h2> - - -<p> -The Rector of Belfont had willingly permitted -the little Zerbellini to be placed -under his wife’s care. The distance from -thence to the castle was short; and Calantha -had already sent her children -there for the benefit of sea-bathing. On -returning one day thence, she called upon -Gerald Mac Allain, who had absented -himself from the castle, ever since Mr. -Buchanan had appeared there. She found -him mournfully employed in looking -over some papers and drawings, which he -had removed to his own habitation. Upon -seeing Lady Avondale he arose, and -pointing to the drawings, which she recognized: -“Poor Alice,” he said, “these -little remembrances tell me of happier -days, and make me sad; but when I see -you, my Lady, I forget my sorrows.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_61' href='#Page_61'>61</a></span> -Linden’s cottage was at a very little distance -from Gerald Mac Allain’s. Calantha -now informed him that she had met young -Linden at the fair, and had wished to -speak to him; but that she did not immediately -remember him, he was so altered. -Gerald said “it was no use for her -to speak to him, or for any one else, he -was so desperate-like; and,” added he, -“Alice’s misconduct has broke all our -hearts: we never meet now as formerly; -we scarce dare look at each other as we -pass.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, Gerald,” said Calantha, -“since you have spoken to me on this -melancholy subject, what is the general -opinion about Alice? Has Linden no -idea of what has become of her?—had he -no suspicion, no doubt of her, till the -moment when she fled?” “Oh yes, my -Lady,” said the old man, “my poor girl -estranged herself from him latterly; and -when Linden was obliged to leave her to -go to the county of Leitrim for Mr. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_62' href='#Page_62'>62</a></span> -O’Flarney, during his absence, which -lasted six weeks, he received a letter from -her, expressing her sorrow that she never -could belong to him. Upon his return he -found her utterly changed; and in a few -weeks after, she declined his further visits; -only once again consenting to see him. -It was on the very morning before my -Lady Margaret conveyed her away from -the castle.” -</p> - -<p> -“But did you never suspect that things -were going on ill before?—did Linden -make no attempt to see her at the Doctor’s? -It seems strange that no measures -should have been taken before it was too -late.” “Alas! my dear young lady, you -do not know how difficult it is to suspect -and chide what we love dearly. I -had given up my child into other hands; -she was removed entirely from my humble -sphere; and whilst I saw her happy, -I could not but think her deserving; and -when she became otherwise, she was miserable, -and it was not the moment to -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_63' href='#Page_63'>63</a></span> -shew her any severity. Indeed, indeed, -it was impossible for me to mistrust or -chide one so above me as my Alice. As -to young Linden, it turned his mind. I -walked to his father’s house, ill as I was, -just to shake hands with him and see him, -as soon as I was told of what had passed. -The old gentleman, Cyrel’s father, could -not speak. The mother wept as soon as -she beheld me; but there was not one -bitter word fell from either, though they -knew it would prove the ruin of the -young man, their son, and perhaps his -death.” -</p> - -<p> -“From that time, till the present,” continued -Gerald, “I seldom see Linden; -he always avoids me. He altered very -much, and took to hard drinking and bad -company; his mind was a little shaken; -he grew very slack at his duty; and -listed, we suppose, with that same gang, -which seduced my two poor boys from -their allegiance and duty. He was reprimanded -and punished by his commander; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_64' href='#Page_64'>64</a></span> -but it seems all one, for Mr. Challoner -was telling me, only a few days since, -that in the last business there with Squire -O’Flarney, Linden was taken notice of -by the justice. There’s no one can save -him, he seems so determined-like on his -own ruin; and they say, it’s the cause -why the old father is on his death-bed at -this present time. There is no bitterness -of heart like that which comes from thankless -children. They never find out, till it -is too late, how parents loved them:—but -it was not her fault—no—I don’t -blame her—(he knit his brow)—no—I -don’t blame her.—Mr. Buchanan is no -child of our own house, though he fills -the place of that gracious infant which it -pleased the Lord to take to himself. Mr. -Buchanan is the son of a strange father:—I -cannot consider him as one of our -own—so arbitrary:—but that’s not the -thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Gerald,” said Calantha, “you are -not sure that Buchanan is the culprit: we -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_65' href='#Page_65'>65</a></span> -should be cautious in our judgments.” -“Oh, but I am sure, and I care not to look -on him; and Linden, they say, menaces -to revenge on the young lord, my wrongs -and his own; but his old father begs him -for God’s sake to be peaceable. Perhaps, -my Lady, you will look on the poor gentleman: -what though ’tis a dying man—you’ll -be gratified to see him, there is -such a calm upon his countenance.” -“Must he die?” “Why, he’s very precarious-like:—but -your noble husband, -the young Lord Avondale, is very good -to him—he has done all a man and a soldier -could do to save him.” “I too will -call,” said Calantha, to hide from Gerald -how much she was affected; “and, as -to you, I must entreat as a favour, that -you will return to the castle: to-morrow -is Harry’s birth-day; and it will not be -a holiday, my father says, if you are not, -as you were wont to be, at the head of the -table with all the tenants.” “I will -come,” said Gerald, “if it were only on -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_66' href='#Page_66'>66</a></span> -account of my Lord’s remembering me: -and all the blessings of the land go with -him, and you, and his noble house, till -the end of time, and with the young Lord -of Glenarvon beside, who saved Roy and -Conal from a shameful death—that he -did.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you forget,” said Calantha, smiling, -“that, by your own account, he was -the first to bring them there.” “By my -heart, but he’s a noble spirit for all that; -and he has my good wishes, and those of -many beside.” As he spoke, his eye kindled -with enthusiasm. Calantha’s heart -beat high: she listened with eager interest. -“He’s as generous as our own,” continued -he; “and if he lets his followers take a pig -or two from that rogue there, Squire Flarney, -does not he give half he has to those -in distress? If I could ever meet him -face to face, I’d tell him the same; but we -never know when he’s among us; for -sure, there’s St. Clara the prophetess, he -went to see her once, they say, and she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_67' href='#Page_67'>67</a></span> -left her aunt the Abbess, and the convent, -and all the nuns, and went off after -him, as mad as the rest. Och! you’d -bless yourself to see how the folks crowd -about him at the season, but they’re all -gone from these parts now, in hopes of -saving Linden, I’m told; for you know, -I suppose, that he’s missing, and if he’s -deserted, it’s said they are sure to shoot -him on account of the troubles.” -</p> - -<p> -“Three times there have been meetings in -that cleft there,” continued Gerald, pointing -towards the Wizzard’s Glen: “it was -that was the first undoing of Miss St. -Clare: they tell me she’s all for our being -delivered from our tyrants; and she prophecies -so, it would do you good to hear -her. Oh, they move along, a thousand -at a time, in a silence would surprise -you—just in the still night, and you -can scarce hear them tread as they -pass; but I know well when they’re -coming, and there is not one of us who -live here about the town, would betray -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_68' href='#Page_68'>68</a></span> -them, though the reward offered is very -stupendous.” -</p> - -<p> -“But see, here are some of the military -coming” ... “That officer is General Kennedy,” -said Lady Avondale, approaching -towards him: “he is not a tyrant at -least.” As she said this, she bowed to -him, for she knew him well. He often -dined at the Castle. He was saying a few -words to her upon common uninteresting -topics, when, a soldier beckoning to him, -two horsemen appeared.—“He’s found,” -said one: “there is no doubt of his guilt; -and twenty other names are on the list.” -“I trust in God it is not Linden, of whom -you are speaking,” said Calantha. General -Kennedy made no answer: he only -bowed to her, as if to excuse himself; and -retired. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha observed a vast number of -people assembled on the road, close to -the village. Gerald Mac Allain could -scarcely support himself. She enquired -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_69' href='#Page_69'>69</a></span> -what they were waiting for. “To see -the deserters,” they answered. It was -women, children, parents who spoke: -some wept aloud; others stood in silent -anguish; many repeated the name of him -in whom they took deepest interest, asking -if his was of the number. Linden’s -she heard most frequently. “Ill luck to -the monsters!—ill luck to the men of -blood!” was vociferated the whole way -she went. “This will kill the old man,” -said Gerald: “it will be his death: he -has been all night fearing it, ever since -Linden has been missing.” -</p> - -<p> -The crowd, seeing Calantha, approached -in all directions. “Oh beg our -king, your father, to save them,” said -one: “Jesus reward you:” and they -knelt and prayed to her. She was too -much affected to answer. Some of the -officers approached her, and advised her -to retire. “The crowd will be immense,” -they said: “your Ladyship had -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_70' href='#Page_70'>70</a></span> -better not remain to witness this heartbreaking -scene.” “Twenty names are -on the list,” continued the officer, “all -deserted, as soon as Linden did. Mercy, -in this instance, will be weakness: too -much has already been shewn.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_71' href='#Page_71'>71</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER VII. -</h2> - - -<p> -Calantha returned home with a heavy -heart; and spoke to Lord Avondale and -her father. They both intreated her not -to interfere. The moment indeed was -alarming and eventful; whatever measures -were necessary, it was not for her to -judge; and while enthusiasm in the cause -of liberty beguiled some, it was, she felt it -was, the duty of a woman to try and soften -and conciliate every thing. Linden’s fate -was peculiarly unfortunate, and Lord -Avondale generously interested himself -for him. Had money been able to purchase -his release, there was no sum he -would not have offered. They heard -with the deepest regret, that it was a case -where mercy could not be shewn, without -apprehending the most fatal effects from -it. Linden and Seaford had together entered -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_72' href='#Page_72'>72</a></span> -the militia not above three years -back. Linden, an only son, was now in his -twentieth year, and Seaford, was scarce -eighteen. Their example was deemed -the more necessary for the general safety, -as so many in the same regiment had deserted -upon hearing of their disaffection. -In the month of December last, they had -all taken the treasonable oaths; and their -rash conduct and riotous proceedings had -already more than once incurred the severity -of the law. -</p> - -<p> -Linden and two others had been accused, -and afterwards pardoned on a -former occasion: their names had been -likewise erased from the list of offenders. -This second breach of faith was deemed -unpardonable. Mercy, it was supposed, -would but appear like weakness and -alarm; all intercessions were utterly -fruitless; they were tried, found guilty -and condemned. Linden was so much -beloved by his companions, that several -attempts were made, even by his fellow-soldiers -and comrades, to rescue him from -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_73' href='#Page_73'>73</a></span> -the hands of justice; but he disdained to -be so released; and when he heard of the -tumult his condemnation had excited, he -asked his captain’s permission to be -spared the last bitter conflict of walking -through his own native town. The request -was denied him. -</p> - -<p> -On the 18th of May, at the hour of -four, the time appointed to assemble, -twenty-three men, who had taken part -in the riot, were called out. The regiment, -after this, slowly advanced in solemn -procession through the town, followed -by the cavalry, and all the horse -artillery. The streets were thronged—the -windows were crowded—not a word -was spoken; but the sobs and cries of -friends, parents and old acquaintance, who -came out to take a last farewell, were -heard. After passing through Belfont, -they turned to the high road, and continued -the march until they reached the -plains above Inis Tara, about two miles -from the town. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_74' href='#Page_74'>74</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Linden and Seaford were then brought -forward with a strong escort. They -continued silent and firm to the last. Just -as the pause was made, before the command -was given that they should kneel, -the mother of Linden, supported by Mac -Allain, forced her way through the -crowd, and implored permission to take -a last farewell of her son. The officer -desired that she might pass; but the -crowd was so great that it was with difficulty -she could arrive at the spot:—when -there, she only once shook hands with the -young man, and said she had brought -him his father’s blessing:—he made no -answer, but appeared very deeply affected. -He had shewn the most deliberate -courage till that hour. It now forsook -him, and he trembled excessively. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank God I am spared this,” said -his companion: “I have no mother left.” -The signal was immediately given to fire; -and the party prepared to do their duty. -A troop of horse at that moment, in the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_75' href='#Page_75'>75</a></span> -green uniform of the national guards, -appeared from an ambush, and a desperate -struggle ensued. The mutineers set -up a terrible yell during the combat. -The inhabitants, both of the town and -country, joined them in every direction. -Lord Avondale and many other officers -present came up to the assistance of General -Kennedy’s small force, and soon -restored order. The party of horse were -put to flight. The colonel of the regiment -immediately ordered a court-martial; -and three prisoners, who were taken -with Seaford and Linden, were executed -on the spot. -</p> - -<p> -In the skirmish, the young man who -headed the party of horse, and exposed -himself most eagerly to rescue Linden, -was wounded in the left arm: his person -was described; the circumstance was -mentioned; and a high reward was offered -for his head. It was supposed by -many that he was Lord Glenarvon. -</p> - -<p> -The severity of these proceedings -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_76' href='#Page_76'>76</a></span> -struck an immediate panic throughout -the disaffected. The inhabitants of the -town of Belfont arrayed themselves in -black. A long and mournful silence -succeeded; and few there were who penetrated, -under the veil of submissive acquiescence, -the spirit of rebellion and -vengeance, which was preparing to burst -forth. Gerald Mac Allain, forgetful of -his wrongs, appeared at the castle; Lady -St. Clare wrote the most penitent letter to -Sir Everard; and with her two daughters -Jessica and Laura, entreated permission -to return. Every one of the tradesmen -and farmers of any respectability took -their names from the new club, opposite -Sir Everard’s house; and a sort of -mournful tranquillity and terror seemed -to reign throughout. -</p> - -<p> -A few days after this melancholy transaction, -Linden’s mother died; and as -Calantha was returning from Belfont, she -met the crowd who had followed her to -the grave. They all passed her in silence, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_77' href='#Page_77'>77</a></span> -nor gave her one salutation, or -smile of acknowledgment, as on other -occasions; yet they were her father’s -own tenants, and most of their countenances -she remembered from childhood. -When she mentioned this circumstance -at the castle, she was informed that Lord -Avondale’s having taken an active part -against the party who had come forward -to save the deserters, was the cause of -this. -</p> - -<p> -To such heights, at this time, was the -spirit of party carried. The whole kingdom, -indeed, was in a state of ferment -and disorder. Complaints were made, -redress was claimed, and the people were -everywhere mutinous and discontented. -Even the few of their own countrymen, -who possessed the power, refused to attend -to the grievances and burthens of -which the nation generally complained, -and sold themselves for hire, to the English -government. Numerous absentees -had drawn great part of the money out -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_78' href='#Page_78'>78</a></span> -of the country; oppressive taxes were -continued; land was let and sub-let to -bankers and stewards of estates, to the -utter ruin of the tenants; and all this -caused the greatest discontent. -</p> - -<p> -Some concessions were now granted -in haste—some assurances of relief made; -but the popular spirit of indignation, -once excited, was not to be allayed by -the same means which had, perhaps, -prevented its first rise. The time for -conciliation was past. A foreign enemy -lost no opportunity of adding to the increasing -inward discontent. The friends -of government had the power of the -sword and the weight of influence on -their side; but the enemies were more -numerous, more desperate, more enthusiastic. -The institution of political clubs, -the combination of the United Irishmen, -for the purpose of forwarding a brotherhood -of affection, a communion of rights, -amongst those of every different persuasion, -even a military force was now attempted; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_79' href='#Page_79'>79</a></span> -and the constant cry of all the -inhabitants of either town or country -was a total repeal of the penal statutes, -the elective franchise, reform of parliament, -and commutation of tythes. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst, however, the more moderate -with sincerity imagined, that they were -upholding the cause of liberty and religion; -the more violent, who had emancipated -their minds from every restraint -of prejudice or principle, did not conceal -that the equalization of property, and the -destruction of rank and titles was their -real object. The revolutionary spirit -was fast spreading, and since the appearance -of Lord Glenarvon, at Belfont, the -whole of the county around was in a -state of actual rebellion. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_80' href='#Page_80'>80</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER VIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -Glenarvon seemed, however, to differ -in practice from his principles; for whilst -many of those who had adopted the same -language had voluntarily thrown off their -titles, and divided their property amongst -their partizans, he made a formal claim -for the titles his grandfather had forfeited; -and though he had received no -positive assurance that his claim would -be considered, he called himself by that -name alone, and insisted upon his followers -addressing him in no other manner. -This singular personage, of whom -so many, for a long period, had heard the -strangest reports, whom many imagined -to be dead, and who seemed, whenever -he appeared, to make no light impression -upon all those with whom he conversed, -had passed his youth in a foreign country, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_81' href='#Page_81'>81</a></span> -and had only twice visited the abode of -his ancestors until the present year. -</p> - -<p> -It was amidst the ruins of ancient architecture, -and the wild beauties of Italian -scenery, that his splendid genius and -uncommon faculties were first developed. -Melancholy, unsocial, without a guide, -he had centered upon himself every -strong interest, and every aspiring hope. -Dwelling ever in the brilliant regions of -fancy, his soul turned with antipathy -from the ordinary cares of life. He -deeply felt the stigma that had been cast -upon his family in the person of his -grandfather, who, from the favourite of a -changing prince, had become the secret -accomplice of a bloody conspiracy. The -proofs of his guilt were clear; his death -was a death of shame; and the name of -traitor was handed down with the coronet -to which his only surviving heir so eagerly -aspired. -</p> - -<p> -By his nearest friends he was now -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_82' href='#Page_82'>82</a></span> -called Glenarvon; and so jealous did he -appear of his rank, that he preferred disguise, -straits and difficulties, to a return -to his own country without those titles, -and that fortune, which he considered as -his due. One object of interest succeeded -another; a life of suspense was preferred -to apathy; and the dark counsels of unprincipled -associates, soon led one, already -disloyal in heart, to the very brink -of destruction. Flushed with the glow -of intemperate heat, or pale with the -weariness of secret woe, he vainly sought -in a career of pleasure, for that happiness -which his restless mind prevented him -from enjoying. -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon had embraced his father’s -profession, wherein he had distinguished -himself by his courage and talent; but -to obey another was irksome; and the -length of time which must elapse before -he could obtain the command of a ship, -soon disgusted him with the service. He -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_83' href='#Page_83'>83</a></span> -plunged, therefore, into all the tumults -of dissipation, to which a return to Rome -and Florence invited him. -</p> - -<p> -He gave up his days and nights to -every fierce excess; and soon the high -spirit of genius was darkened, the lofty -feelings of honor were debased, and the -frame and character sunk equally dejected -under the fatigue of vigils and revels, in -which reason and virtue had no share. -Intervals of gloom succeeded, till, stimulated -again, his fallen countenance -betrayed a disappointed heart; and he -fled from unjoyous feasts and feverish -hopes to lowliness and sullen despair. -He had been wronged, and he knew not -how to pardon: he had been deceived, -and he existed henceforward, but to mislead -others. His vengeance was dark -and sudden—it was terrible. His mind, -from that hour, turned from the self-approving -hope, the peace of a heart at -rest. -</p> - -<p> -The victim of his unfortunate attachment -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_84' href='#Page_84'>84</a></span> -had fallen a prey to the revengeful -jealousy of an incensed husband; but -her death was not more sudden, more -secret, than that of the tyrant who had -destroyed her. Every one knew by -whose hand the fair and lovely Fiorabella -had perished; but no eye bore witness -against the assassin, who, in the depths -of night had immediately revenged her -loss. The murderer and the murdered -were both alike involved in the impenetrable -veil of mystery. The proud -and noble family who had been injured, -had neither the power, nor the inclination -to seek redress. Lord Glenarvon was -seen no more at Florence: he had been -the cause of this tragic scene. It afflicted -his generous heart when he reflected -upon the misery he had occasioned; but -not even his bitterest enemy could have -suspected him of deeper guilt. His -youth was untainted by the suspicion of -crime, and the death of Giardini, with -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_85' href='#Page_85'>85</a></span> -greater show of justice, was affixed to -another, and a more dangerous hand. -</p> - -<p> -Fascinated with the romantic splendour -of ideal liberty, and intent upon flying -from the tortures of remembrance, which -the death of his mistress, and the unpleasant -circumstances attending Giardini’s -murder must naturally excite, he had -visited Ireland in the spring of the year -..., and had remained there some -months, unknown even to his adherents, -who flocked around him, attracted by -his eloquence, and easily won by his -address. One only victim returned with -him in his voluntary exile, from his -native land. One only miserable enthusiast -devoted herself to his fortunes, and -accompanied him in his flight. O’Kelly, -the son of a tenant of his father’s recognized -his youthful lord, and early ingratiated -himself into his favour. -</p> - -<p> -With this sole attendant, and the unhappy -girl who had renounced her country -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_86' href='#Page_86'>86</a></span> -and her virtue for his sake, he departed, -nor was seen again at St. Alvin -Priory till the present year. -</p> - -<p> -Indeed the report of his death was so -often affirmed, that when he again presented -himself, so changed in manner -and in form, before his adherents, they -questioned one with another whether he -was in reality their lord. “I am not what -I seem,” he would frequently say; “I am -not him whom you take me for.” -</p> - -<p> -Strange things were rumoured concerning -this Glenarvon. There was a -man in his service who had returned -with him, who spoke to none, who answered -no enquiries, who had never -before been seen with him in his former -visits. It was said that he knew many -things if he durst but utter them. All -feared and avoided this man. His name -was Macpherson, the same whom Gondimar -had seen in town; but all felt -irresistably attracted by his youthful master. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_87' href='#Page_87'>87</a></span> -Glenarvon’s projects—his intentions -were now but too generally suspected;—it -was a critical moment; and his presence -at that particular time, in Ireland, -occasioned many conjectures. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_88' href='#Page_88'>88</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER IX. -</h2> - - -<p> -In this his second visit to his native -country, Glenarvon desired his servant, -O’Kelly, to find a person of respectability -who would take charge of a child, then -only in his second year. Clare of Costolly -was his name; but whether the boy -was the son of Lord Glenarvon, or some -little favourite who, for the moment, had -obtained his interest, none knew, or durst -enquire. -</p> - -<p> -Indeed, the impenetrable mystery which -surrounded Lord Glenarvon was involved -in a deeper shade of concealment at this -time, than at any former period; for -scarce had he set foot in his new habitation, -when a singular and terrific inmate -appeared also at the Priory—a maniac! -who was however welcomed with the rest -of the strange assemblage, and a room -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_89' href='#Page_89'>89</a></span> -immediately allotted for his reception. -In vain the affrighted nurse remonstrated; -the maniac’s eyes were fixed upon the -child, with frantic wildness; and Glenarvon, -deaf to her entreaties, permitted -Clare to attend upon the unwelcome -stranger and saw him in his arms without -alarm. -</p> - -<p> -Even in his most dreadful paroxysms, -when all others were afraid of approaching -him, Glenarvon would calmly enter -into his chamber, would hear his threats -unawed,—would gaze on him, as if it -gave him delight to watch the violence of -misguided passion; to hear the hollow -laugh of ideotsy, or fix the convulsed eye -of raving insanity. -</p> - -<p> -That which was disgusting or terrific -to man’s nature, had no power over Glenarvon. -He had looked upon the dying -and the dead; had seen the tear of agony -without emotion; had heard the shriek -of despair, and felt the hot blood as it -flowed from the heart of a murdered -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_90' href='#Page_90'>90</a></span> -enemy, nor turned from the sickening -sight—even the storms of nature could -not move Glenarvon. In the dark night, -when the tempest raged around and the -stormy ocean beat against the high impending -cliffs, he would venture forth, -would listen to the roaring thunder without -fear, and watch the forked lightning -as it flashed along the sky. -</p> - -<p> -The rushing winds but seemed to sooth -his perturbed spirit; and the calm of his -brow remained unaltered in every changing -scene. Yet it was the calm of hopeless -despair, when passion, too violent to -shew itself by common means, concentrates -itself at once around the heart, -and steels it against every sentiment of -mercy. -</p> - -<p> -Who had dared to enquire of that eye -the meaning of its glance? or who had -trusted to the music of that soft voice, -when it breathed forth vows of tenderness -and love? or who, believing in the light -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_91' href='#Page_91'>91</a></span> -of life which beamed upon that countenance, -had considered the sportive jests -of fancy—the brilliant sallies of that -keen wit as the overflowing testimony of -a heart at rest? None—none believed -or trusted in Glenarvon.—Yet thousands -flocked around and flattered him; amidst -this band of ruffians, this lawless unprincipled -gang, the recluse of Glanaa—the -lovely, but misguided Elinor was now -too often seen. She was the spirit and -soul of the merry party: her wit enlivened; -her presence countenanced; her -matchless beauty attracted. Scarce in -her sixteenth year, the pride of her family, -the wonder and ornament of the -whole country, she forsook her solitude -and hopes of heaven—she left the aunt, -who had fostered and cherished her from -childhood, to become avowedly the mistress -of Glenarvon. On horse, or on -foot, she accompanied him. In the attire -of a boy she unblushingly followed -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_92' href='#Page_92'>92</a></span> -his steps! his former favourites were never -even named, or alluded to—his present -mistress occupied all his attention. -</p> - -<p> -When St. Clara described the sufferings -of her country, every heart melted -to compassion, or burned with indignation; -but when her master, when Glenarvon -played upon her harp, or sung -the minstrelsy of the bards of other times, -he inspired the passions which he felt, -and inflamed the imagination of his -hearers to deeds of madness—to acts of -the most extravagant absurdity. Crowds -followed upon his steps; yet it was melancholy -to see them pass—so fair, so -young and yet so utterly hardened and -perverted. Who could behold her, and -not compassionate her fate? What was to -become of her when Glenarvon had ceased -to love; and did he love?—Never: -in the midst of conquests, his heart was -desolate; in the fond embrace of mutual -affection, he despised the victim of his -art. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_93' href='#Page_93'>93</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Of all the friends, flatterers and followers, -he had gained by his kindness, -and lost by his caprice, not one remained -to fill, in his bosom, that craving void -which he himself had made. Wherever -he appeared, new beauty attracted his -worship, and yielded to his power; yet -he valued not the transient possession, -even whilst smiling upon the credulous -being who had believed in his momentary -affection. Even whilst soothing her -with promises and vows, which he meant -not for one hour to perform, he was seeking -the means of extricating himself from -her power—he was planning his escape -from the thraldom of her charms? Was -he generous? Aye, and prodigal by nature; -but there was a part of his character -which ill accorded with the rest: -it was a spirit of malignity if wounded, -which never rested till it had satisfied its -vengeance. An enemy, he could have pardoned -and have loved; but he knew not -how to bear with or forgive a friend. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_94' href='#Page_94'>94</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -His actions appeared the immediate result -of impulse; but his passions were all -subject to his controul, and there was a -systematic consistency even in his most -irregular conduct. To create illusions, and -raise affection in the breasts of others, -has been the delight of many: to dispel -the interest he had created was Glenarvon’s -care. Love he had studied as an -art: he knew it in all its shades and gradations; -for he had traced its progress -in his own and many another breast. Of -knowledge and wisdom, he had drank deep -at the fountain head, nor wanted aught -that could give liveliness and variety -to his discourse. -</p> - -<p> -He was, besides, a skilful flatterer, and -knew in what weak part, he best might -apply his power. But the sweetness of -his praise, could only be exceeded by the -bitterness of his contempt—the venomed -lash of his deadly wit. -</p> - -<p> -That in which Glenarvon most prided -himself—that in which he most excelled, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_95' href='#Page_95'>95</a></span> -was the art of dissembling. He could -turn and twine so near the truth, with -more than Machiavelian subtlety, that -none could readily detect his falsehood; -and when he most appeared frank and -unguarded, then he most deceived. -Falsehood and craft were stamped upon -his countenance, written upon his brow, -marked in his words, and scarce concealed -beneath the winning smile which oftentimes -played upon his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“If I could but see him once,” said -Lady Augusta, “I should be satisfied; -but to hear his name from morning till -night—to have every fault, folly, nay -even crime attributed to him by one -party, and every virtue, charm and fascination -given him by the other,—it is -enough to distract women in general, and -me in particular. Is there no mercy for -curiosity? I feel I shall do something absurd, -extremely absurd, if an interview -is not contrived.” “Nothing can be -more easy,” said the Duke: “you shall -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_96' href='#Page_96'>96</a></span> -dine with him, at the next public day. -I have already sent him a card of invitation.” -“Under what title?” “To -Captain de Ruthven.” “He will assuredly -not come,” said Lady Trelawney. -“That I think probable,” said -the Duke, laughing. “The malicious affirm -that his arm is in a sling; and if so, -his appearance just at present would be -unwise.” The conversation soon took -another turn; and Lord Avondale entering, -informed Calantha that he had a -letter from Sir Richard, and must immediately -join him at Cork. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_97' href='#Page_97'>97</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER X. -</h2> - - -<p> -Admiral Buchanan and Sir Richard -Mowbray had, in the month of January, -returned to England, where they had received -the thanks of the Lower House for -their distinguished conduct and assistance -on the memorable 4th of June. The -ships had been now ordered into harbour -to undergo some trifling repairs, and the -Admirals had been commanded to take -their station at Cork. The enthusiasm -with which the heroes were greeted on -their return, did honour to the feelings -of the Irish nation. They were invited -to every house in the neighbourhood; and -<i>fêtes</i> and balls were given to shew them -respect. The Duke and Lord Avondale -went forward to receive them. -</p> - -<p> -Commodore Emmet, an old acquaintance -who resided at Cork, sent to offer -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_98' href='#Page_98'>98</a></span> -his house, not only to them, but to the -whole party at Castle Delaval; if they -could make up their minds to accept Sir -George’s invitation, and dine on board -the Royal William on the 4th of June, -in commemoration of that day and its -success. There were few, if any, of those -invited who refused; but none accepted -the invitation with so much enthusiasm -as Calantha. The letter from Sir George -Buchanan to Lady Margaret, was as follows:— -</p> - -<p class="letter_head s08"> -“Cork, June 1st, 1796. -</p> -<p> -“My dear Lady Margaret, -</p> - -<p> -“In answer to a letter which I received -this morning, dated May 29th, ult. I request -the honour of your Ladyship’s company -on board the Royal William, now -in harbour at the Cove. The Duke and -the rest of his family and party have already -promised me this favour, and I am -not prepared to accept from yourself any -denial on account of those circumstances -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_99' href='#Page_99'>99</a></span> -to which you allude, and which, I entreat -you sincerely to believe are, on my part, -utterly forgotten. Let me request you, -then, to banish from your memory every -trifling disagreement, and to meet me, -upon an occasion so flattering as is the -present to my feelings and those of our -friends, with the good-will and kindness -you will ever find in the heart of your -Ladyship’s most obedient and affectionate -brother and servant, -</p> - - -<p class="letter_head"> -“<span class="smcap">George Buchanan</span>.” -</p> - -<p> -In consequence of this invitation, Lady -Margaret and the rest of the Duke’s family -set out on the morning of the 3rd, -and arrived about the hour of dinner at -Commodore Emmet’s—a large brick -building about a quarter of a mile beyond -the town of Cork. The Duke and Lord -Avondale, and their loquacious host, had -been waiting some time, it appeared, in -much anxiety. The latter gave to each the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_100' href='#Page_100'>100</a></span> -most cordial welcome; boasted that he -could lodge them all; talked incessantly, -as he shewed them to their apartments; -entreated them not to dress, as dinner -awaited; and left them, assuring each -that they were the exact image of the -Duke, whom he concluded to be, like the -Patriarchs of old, the father of the whole -company. His voice murmured on as -he descended the stairs, whilst Cassandra -and Eloise, his daughters, appeared to -offer their services in his place. -</p> - -<p> -The dining-room was small; the -guests were numerous; the table was -crowded with huge pieces of meat: the -Commodore talked incessantly; his children, -his servants, his brother, seemed all -gifted alike with the same spirit of activity: -it was incessant bustle, hurry, -noise and contrivance. Music, cards, -and tricks of every kind were displayed -during the evening; and in the morning, -long before the sun had arisen, carpenters, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_101' href='#Page_101'>101</a></span> -mechanics, ship-builders, and cooks, -awoke the guests by the noise of their -respective pursuits. -</p> - -<p> -Sir George Buchanan had sent to request -the Duke’s company at an early -hour on the morrow. The day proved -fair, the boats were ready, and they set -forth on their expedition in high spirits. -Many ships and smaller vessels were spread -over the harbour; and bands of music -played as they passed. The beauty of -the cove of Cork, the trees bending to the -water side, the fortress, and the animated -picture which a mercantile city presents,—delighted -all. But feelings of enthusiasm -kindled, in every heart, when they -approached the Royal William, and beheld -its venerable commander. The sea -was rough, and the spray of the waves -was at times blown over the boat. The -Miss Emmets thought of their new -dresses; Sophia of danger; and Calantha -of the glory of thus proudly riding over -the billowy ocean. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_102' href='#Page_102'>102</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Lady Margaret, though silent, was -more deeply agitated:—her mind recurred -in thought to scenes long past. -She was now to behold, after a lapse of -many years, her husband’s brother, whom -she had treated with the most marked indignity, -and for whom she had vainly attempted -to feel contempt. He had ever -conducted himself towards her with courteous, -though distant civility; but had -yet shewn the most decided disapprobation -of her conduct. When she had last -beheld him, she was in the full splendour -of youth and beauty, surrounded by an -admiring world, and triumphant in the -possession of every earthly enjoyment. -Time had but little changed the majesty -of her form; but something worse than -time had stamped upon her countenance -an expression never to be effaced; while -her marked brow assumed an air of sullen -pride and haughty reserve: as she ascended -from the boat into the ship, she -gazed upon the long forgotten features of -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_103' href='#Page_103'>103</a></span> -her brother; and she seemed to be deeply -affected. Age had bleached his once -dark locks; but he was still unimpaired -in mind and form. He bent lowly down -to receive her: she felt him clasp her to -his bosom; and, overcome by this unexpected -kindness, her tears streamed upon -his hand:—he, too, could have wept; but, -recovering himself, with a commanding -air, he came forward to receive his other -guests. -</p> - -<p> -The ship was in the highest order; the -feast prepared was magnificent; and when -the Duke stood up and bowed with grace -to drink the Admiral’s health, the sailors -cheered, and the toast was repeated from -the heart by every individual. But he, -though greatly affected and pleased at -the homage shewn him, bowed to the -Duke, returning him the compliment; and -afterwards, drinking the health of Sir -Richard Mowbray, said, that he owed -every thing to his assistance—that, in -the glorious action of the 4th, his ship -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_104' href='#Page_104'>104</a></span> -had conferred new honours on the British -Navy, and he had received the commendation -of Admiral Howe. -</p> - -<p> -At that name, every individual arose. -The name of Howe was repeated from -mouth to mouth with an expression of -exalted admiration; his applauses were -spoken by every tongue; and many an -eye that had never shewn weakness, till -that moment, filled with tears at the -name of their venerable, their dear commander. -Captain Emmet, during this -scene, was employed in eating voraciously -of whatever he could lay hands on. Miss -Emmet, who thought it a great honor to -converse with a lord, had seated herself -by the side of Lord Avondale, narrating -her own adventures, freely stating her -own opinions, and pleased with herself -and every one present; while her father -likewise talked at the other end of the -table, and Admiral Buchanan laughed -heartily, but good humouredly at his -friend’s oppressive eloquence. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_105' href='#Page_105'>105</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly Lord Avondale turned to -Calantha and asked her if she were ill? -She knew not, she could not define the sort -of pain and joy she felt at that moment. -Her eyes had long been fixed upon one -who took no part in this convivial scene—whose -pale cheek and brow expressed -much of disappointed hope, or of joyless -indifference. He had that youthful, nay -boyish air, which rendered this melancholy -the more singular.—It was not -affected, though his manner had in it -nothing of nature; but the affectation -was rather that of assumed respect for -those he cared not for, and assumed interest -in topics to which he hardly attended, -than the reverse. He even affected -gaiety; but the heart’s laugh never -vibrated from his lips; and, if he uttered -a sentence, his eye seemed to despise the -being who listened with avidity to his -observation. It was the same,—oh! yes, -it was, indeed, the same, whom Calantha -had one moment beheld at St. Alvin -Priory. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_106' href='#Page_106'>106</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -His face, his features, were the same, -it is true; but a deeper shade of sadness -now overspread them; and sorrow and -disappointment had changed the glow of -boyish health to a more pallid hue. -What! in a month? it will be said.—A -day might, perhaps, have done it. However, -in the present instance, it was not -as if some sudden and defined misfortune -had opprest the soul by a single -blow: it was rather as if every early -hope had long been blighted; and every -aspiring energy had been destroyed. -There was nothing pleasing to gaze -upon: it was mournful; but it excited -not sympathy, nor confidence. The -arm was in a sling—the left arm. There -could be no doubt that he was the hero -who had risked his life to save young -Linden. Was it, indeed, Lord Glenarvon -whom Calantha beheld? Yes, it -was himself.—Face to face she stood -before him, and gazed with eager curiosity -upon him. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_107' href='#Page_107'>107</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Never did the hand of the Sculptor, in -the full power of his art, produce a form -and face more finely wrought, so full of -soul, so ever-varying in expression. Was -it possible to behold him unmoved? Oh! -was it in woman’s nature to hear him, -and not to cherish every word he uttered? -And, having heard him, was it in the -human heart ever again to forget those -accents, which awakened every interest, -and quieted every apprehension? The -day, the hour, that very moment of time -was marked and destined. It was Glenarvon—it -was that spirit of evil whom -she beheld; and her soul trembled within -her, and felt its danger. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha was struck suddenly, forcibly -struck; yet the impression made upon -her, was not in Glenarvon’s favour. The -eye of the rattle-snake, it has been said, -once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it -with terror and alarm: the bird, thus -charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it -sings its last sweet lay; flutters its little -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_108' href='#Page_108'>108</a></span> -pinions in the air; then falls like a shot -before its destroyer, unable to fly from -his fascination. Calantha bowed, therefore -with the rest, pierced to the heart at -once by the maddening power that destroys -alike the high and low; but she -liked not the wily turn of his eye, the -contemptuous sneer of his curling lip, -the soft passionless tones of his voice;—it -was not nature, or if it was nature, not -that to which she had been accustomed;—not -the open, artless expression of a -guileless heart. -</p> - -<p> -Starting from the kind of dream in -which she had for one moment been -wrapped, she now looked around her. -The affectation with which she veiled the -interest she felt, is scarce accountable. -</p> - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon was the real object of -her thoughts, yet she appeared alone to -be occupied with every other. She -laughed with Lord Trelawney; talked to -the Miss Emmets; examined with interest -every part of the ship, carelessly -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_109' href='#Page_109'>109</a></span> -approaching the very edge of it; yet once -she met that glance, which none ever -who had seen, could forget, and she -stopped as if rivetted to the earth.—He -smiled; but whether it was a smile of -approbation, or of scorn, she could not -discover: the upper lip was curled, as -if in derision; but the hand that was -stretched out to save her, as she stood on -the brink of the vessel, and the soft -silvery voice which gently admonished -her to beware, lest one false step should -plunge her headlong into the gulph -below, soon re-assured her. -</p> - -<p> -It was late before the Duke took leave -of the admiral, who promised to breakfast -with the Commodore the ensuing day. -The guns once more were fired; the band -played as for their arrival; but the music -now seemed to breathe a sadder strain; -for it was heard, softened by distance, and -every stroke of the oars rendered the -sounds more and more imperfect. The -sun was setting, and cast its lustre on the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_110' href='#Page_110'>110</a></span> -still waves: even the loquacity of the -Emmets was for a few moments suspended; -it was a moment which impressed -the heart with awe; it was a -scene never to be forgotten. The splendour -of conquest, the tumult of enthusiasm, -the aged veteran, and more than -all, perhaps, that being who seemed early -wrecked in the full tide of misfortune, -were all fixed indelibly in Calantha’s -memory. Future times might bring new -interests and events; magnificence might -display every wonderful variety; but the -impression of that scene never can be -effaced. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_111' href='#Page_111'>111</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XI. -</h2> - - -<p> -Calantha could not speak one word -during the evening; but while Miss -Emmets sung—indifferently, she listened -and even wept at what never before excited -or interest, or melancholy. At -night, when in sleep, one image pursued -her,—it was all lovely—all bright: it -seemed to be clothed in the white garments -of an angel; it was too resplendent -for eyes to gaze on:—she awoke. Lord -Avondale slept in the inner room; she -arose and looked upon him, whilst he -reposed. How long, how fondly she had -loved those features—that form. What -grace, what majesty, what beauty was -there! But when those eyes awake, she -said, they will not look for me. That -heart is at peace, and thou canst sleep, -Henry, and my sorrows are not known -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_112' href='#Page_112'>112</a></span> -or heeded by thee. Happy Avondale:—Miserable, -guilty Calantha! -</p> - -<p> -At an early hour the ensuing day, -Captain Emmet proposed a drive to -Donallan Park, which he said was a fair -domain, fully deserving the attention of -the Duke of Altamonte. Cassandra and -Heloisa clamorously seconded this proposal. -In this energetic family, Mrs. -Emmet alone gave the eye and the ear a -little repose. Stretched upon a couch in -languid listless inactivity, she gazed upon -the bustling scene before her, as if entirely -unconnected with it; nor seemed -to know of greater suffering than when -called from her reveries, by the acute -voices of her family, to the bustle and -hurry of common life. To the question -of whether she would accompany them -to Donallan Park, she answered faintly, -that she would not go. A fat and -friendly lieutenant, who fondly hung -over her, urged her to relent, and with -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_113' href='#Page_113'>113</a></span> -some difficulty, at length, persuaded her -to do so. -</p> - -<p> -Every one appeared much pleased -with their excursion, or possibly with -some incident during their drive, which -had made any excursion agreeable. Of -Donallan Park, however, Calantha remembered -little: this alone, she noted, -that as they walked through a shrubbery, -Lord Glenarvon suddenly disengaging -himself from Miss Emmet, who had monopolized -his arm, gathered a rose—the -only rose in bloom (it being early in the -summer) and turning back, offered it to -Calantha. She felt confused—flattered -perhaps; but if she were flattered by his -giving it to her, she had reason to be -mortified by the remark which accompanied -the gift. “I offer it to you,” he -said, “because the rose at this season is -rare, and all that is new or rare has for -a moment, I believe, some value in your -estimation.” She understood his meaning: -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_114' href='#Page_114'>114</a></span> -her eye had been fixed upon him -with more than common interest; and -all that others said and Miss Emmet affected, -he thought, perhaps, that she -could feel. There was no proof she gave -of this, more unequivocal, than her silence. -Her spirits were gone; a strange -fear of offending had come upon her; -and when Lady Trelawney rallied her -for this change, “I am not well,” she -said; “I wish I had never come to -Cork.” -</p> - -<p> -On the ensuing morning, they returned -to Castle Delaval. Previous to their -departure, Admiral Buchanan had a long -interview with Lady Margaret, during -which time Lord Glenarvon walked along -the beach with Calantha and Sophia. -“Shall you be at Belfont again this -year?” said Miss Seymour. “I shall be -at Castle Delaval in a few days,” he answered, -smiling rather archly at Calantha, -she knew not wherefore. But she turned -coldly from him, as if fearing to meet -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_115' href='#Page_115'>115</a></span> -his eyes. Yet not so was it her custom -to behave towards those whom she -sought to please, and what woman upon -earth exists, who had not wished to -please Glenarvon? Possibly she felt offended -at what he had said when giving -her the rose in Donallan’s gardens; or -it may be that her mind, hitherto so enthusiastic, -so readily attracted, was grown -callous and indifferent, and felt not those -charms and the splendour of those talents -which dazzled and misled every other -heart. -</p> - -<p> -Yet is it unflattering to fly, to feel embarrassed, -to scarcely dare to look upon -the person who addresses us? Is this so -very marked a sign of indifference? It -is not probable that Lord Glenarvon -thought so. He appeared not to hate -the being who was thus confused in his -presence, but to think that he felt what -he inspired were presumption. With all -the wild eagerness of enthusiasm, her -infatuated spirit felt what, with all the art -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_116' href='#Page_116'>116</a></span> -of well dissembled vanity, he feigned. -She quitted him with a strong feeling of -interest. She, however, first heard him -accept her father’s invitation, and agree -to accompany Sir George Buchanan in his -promised visit to Castle Delaval. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_117' href='#Page_117'>117</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XII. -</h2> - - -<p> -On their return thither, they found the -guests they had left in a lamentable state -of dullness. Lord Glenarvon was the -first subject of enquiry. Is he arrived?—have -you seen him?—do you like -him?—were repeated on all sides. -“Who?—who?” “There can be but -one—Lord Glenarvon!” “We all like -him quite sufficiently be assured of that,” -said Sophia, glancing her eye somewhat -sarcastically upon Calantha. “He is a -very strange personage,” said Lady -Margaret. “My curiosity to see him -had been highly excited: I am now perfectly -satisfied. He certainly has a slight -resemblance to his mother.” “He has -the same winning smile,” said Gondimar; -“but there all comparison ceases.” -“What says my Calantha?” said Lady -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_118' href='#Page_118'>118</a></span> -Mandeville, “does her silence denote -praise?” “Oh! the greatest,” she replied -in haste, “I hope, my dear girls,” -said Mrs. Seymour, rather seriously addressing -her daughters, “that you will -neither of you form any very marked -intimacy with a person of so singular a -character as is this young lord. I was -rather sorry when, by your letter, I -found he was invited here.” “Oh, there -is no need of caution for us!” replied -Lady Trelawny, laughing: “perhaps -others may need these counsels, but not -we: we are safe enough; are we not, -Sophia?” -</p> - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon, the object of discussion, -soon appeared at the castle, to silence -both praise and censure. There -was a studied courtesy in his manner—a -proud humility, mingled with a certain -cold reserve, which amazed and repressed -the enthusiasm his youth and misfortunes -had excited. The end was as usual:—all -were immediately won by this unexpected -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_119' href='#Page_119'>119</a></span> -manner:—some more, some -less, and Mrs. Seymour the last. But, to -Calantha’s infinite amusement, she heard -her speaking in his defence a few hours -after his arrival; and the person she addressed, -upon this occasion, was Sir Everard -St. Clare, who vehemently asseverated, -though only in a whisper, that -the Duke must be mad to permit such a -person to remain at the castle in times -like the present. -</p> - -<p> -Sir Everard then stated, that Lady -St. Clare and her daughters were returned -to Belfont, and so eager to be -again received into society, that if they -dared hope that any of the Duke’s family -would accept their invitation, they intended -to give a concert on the night of -the great illumination for the Admiral’s -arrival at Belfont. Mrs. Seymour smiled -in scorn; but Lady Margaret kindly promised -to go there; and as soon as -Mrs. Seymour heard that it was merely -in a political light they were to countenance -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_120' href='#Page_120'>120</a></span> -them, she was satisfied. For the -present terror of all the party, on the -government side, was lest the rebels -should get the better, and murder them -for their tenets. -</p> - -<p> -I will not say what Lord Glenarvon -said to Calantha very shortly after his arrival -at the castle; it was not of a nature -to repeat; it was made up of a thousand -nothings; yet they were so different from -what others had said: it shewed her a -mark of preference; at least it seemed so; -but it was not a preference that could -alarm the most wary, or offend the most -scrupulous. Such as it was, however, it -flattered and it pleased; it gave a new -interest to her life, and obliterated from -her memory every long cherished feeling -of bitterness or regret. -</p> - -<p> -It chanced one day, that, when seated -at dinner, by Mrs. Seymour, to whom he -paid no little attention, he enquired of -her concerning Mac Allain, who waited -upon that occasion behind the Duke’s -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_121' href='#Page_121'>121</a></span> -chair. “Why looks he so miserable?” -he said. “Why turn his eyes so incessantly -towards Mr. Buchanan?” Mrs. -Seymour hesitated, as if fearing to allude -to a transaction which she never thought -of without horror and dislike; but she -no sooner pronounced the name of Mac -Allain, than Lord Glenarvon’s countenance -altered: he started! and, watching -Buchanan with a look of loathing antipathy, -exhibited such a variety of malevolent -passions, in the space of a few -moments, that Sophia, who sat near Calantha -on the opposite side of the table, -asked her, as she read countenances so -well, to tell her what her new friend’s -expressed at that instant. She raised -her eyes; but met Glenarvon’s. He saw; -he was the object of attention: he -smiled; and, the sweetness of that smile -alone being considered: “I know not,” -she said, in some confusion; “but this I -believe, that the hand of Heaven never -impressed on man a countenance so -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_122' href='#Page_122'>122</a></span> -beautiful, so glorious!” “Calantha!” said -Sophia, looking at her. Calantha sighed. -“What is it even so?—Heaven defend -us!” somewhat confused. Calantha turned -to the Count Gondimar; and, talking -with affected spirits, soon appeared -to have forgotten both the smile and the -sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“You once, when in London, gave -me permission to warn you,” said the -Count, who observed every thing that -was passing, “when I thought you in -danger. Now,” continued he,—“now -is the moment. It was not when -dancing with Mr. Clarendon, or playing -the coquette with Buchanan and the -Duke of Myrtlegrove, that I trembled -for you. Lord Avondale was still dear, -even in those days—but now—O! the inconstancy -of the human heart. You, even -you, are changed.” “Not me,” she replied; -“but alas! that time is arrived -which you predicted: he cares no more -for me; but I can never forget him. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_123' href='#Page_123'>123</a></span> -See,” she continued, “how utterly indifferent -he appears, yet I would die for -him.” “That will be of little service: -you will prove his ruin and misery. Mark -my words, Lady Avondale; and, when -too late, remember what I have dared to -say!” -</p> - -<p> -“Every woman complains,” she continued, -smiling, “therefore, let me prove -an exception. I have no reproaches to -make Lord Avondale; and, except in your -suspicious mind, there is no evil to apprehend.” -“Tell me, candidly; if the -trial were made, if the hour of temptation -were to come, could you, do you -think—could you have strength and -courage to resist it?” “Could I! Can -you ask! It will not be accounted presumption -to affirm, that I feel secure. -But possibly this arises from my conviction, -that there can be no temptation for -me: I love my husband: there is no -merit then in being true to what we love.” -</p> - -<p> -As she yet spoke, Zerbellini approached -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_124' href='#Page_124'>124</a></span> -and asked her, in Italian, to read a -note Lord Glenarvon had sent her. It -was written with a pencil, and contained -but few words: it requested her to speak -no more with the Count Gondimar. He -saw the manner in which the paper was -delivered, and guessed from whom it -came. “I told you so,” he cried. “Alas! -shall I affect to offer you advice, when -so many nearer and dearer friends are -silent—shall I pretend to greater wisdom—greater -penetration? Is it not inordinate -vanity to hope, that any thing I can -suggest will be of use?” “Speak,” -said Calantha; for the subject was interesting -to her; “at all events I shall not -be offended.” “The serpent that is cherished -in the bosom,” said Gondimar, -fiercely, “will bite with deadly venom—the -flame that brightly dazzles the little -wanton butterfly, will destroy it. The -heart of a libertine is iron: it softens -when heated with the fires of lust; but -it is cold and hard in itself. The whirlwinds -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_125' href='#Page_125'>125</a></span> -of passions are strong and irresistible; -but when they subside, the -calm of insensibility will succeed. Remember -the friend of thy youth; though -he appear unkind, his seeming neglect -is better worth than the vows and adulation -of all beside. Oh! Lady Avondale, -let one that is lovely, and blest as -you are, continue chaste even in thought.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha looked up, and met Gondimar’s -eyes: the fire in them convinced -her that love alone dictated this sage advice; -and none ever can conceive how -much that feeling had been encreased -by thus seeing a rival before him, whom -he could not hope to render odious or -ridiculous. -</p> - -<p> -That day Lord Glenarvon had passed -at the castle. On the following, he took -his leave. The Duke appeared desirous -of conciliating him; Lady Margaret -was more than ordinarily brilliant -and agreeable; Mrs. Seymour relaxed -something of her frigidity; and the rest -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_126' href='#Page_126'>126</a></span> -of the ladies were enthusiastic in their -admiration. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha spoke much and often apart -with Gondimar. Every thought of her -heart seemed concentrated on the sudden -in one dark interest; yet it was not -love that she felt: it could not be. By -day, by night, one image pursued her; -yet to save, to reclaim, to lead back from -crime to virtue—from misery to peace, -was, as she then apprehended, her sole -desire. Were not all around alike infatuated? -Was not the idol of her fancy -a being to whom all alike paid the insense -of flattery—the most lowly—the -most abject? -</p> - -<p> -“Let them pursue,” she cried; “let -them follow after, and be favoured in -turn. I alone, self-exiled, will fly, will -hide myself beneath every concealment. -He shall hear their words, and believe -in their adulation; but never, whilst -existence is allowed me, shall he know -the interest with which he has inspired -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_127' href='#Page_127'>127</a></span> -me.” Resolved upon this, and dreading -her own thoughts, she danced, she rode, -she sang, she talked to every one, sought -every amusement, and seemed alone to -dread one instant of repose—one single -moment of time devoted to self examination -and reflection. Ceaseless hurry, -joyless mirth, endless desire of amusement -varied the days as they flitted by. -“Oh, pause to reflect!” said Gondimar. -But it was vain: new scenes of interest -succeeded each other; till suddenly she -started as if shuddering on the very edge -of perdition, in the dark labyrinth of -sin—on the fathomless chasm which -opened before her feet. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_128' href='#Page_128'>128</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon was now considered as -a favoured guest at the castle. He came—he -went, as it suited his convenience -or his humour.—But every time he appeared, -the secret interest he had excited, -was strengthened; and every time he -went, he left apparently deeper marks of -regret. -</p> - -<p> -Sir Richard Mowbrey and Sir George -Buchanan, were at this time also at the -castle. Sir Everard, forgetful of his -wrongs, and his Lady of her projects -for the emancipation of her countrymen, -kept open house during their stay; -Lady St. Clare, in pursuance of her plan -of restoring herself to society, assisted -herself with her daughters, at a concert -in the great assembly rooms at Belfont, -given in honour of the Admiral’s arrival. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_129' href='#Page_129'>129</a></span> -On this eventful evening, the whole party -at the castle resolved to make a most -wonderful <i>éclat</i>, by their brilliant appearance -and condescension. The Duke -addressed himself to every individual -with his accustomed affability. Lord -Avondale attended solely to his Uncle, -who amused himself by walking up and -down that part of the room which was -prepared for the dancers, bowing to all, -shaking hands with all, and receiving -those compliments which his brave conduct -deserved. Pale, trembling, and -scarcely heeding the scene, Calantha -watched with breathless anxiety for one -alone; and that one, for what cause she -knew not, spoke not to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Where is he?”—“which is he?”—Was -whispered now from mouth to -mouth. The Admiral, the Duke, the -concert were forgotten. One object -appeared suddenly to engage the most -boundless curiosity. “Is that really Lord -Glenarvon?” Said a pretty little woman -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_130' href='#Page_130'>130</a></span> -pushing her way towards him. “Oh -let me but have the happiness of speaking -one word to him:—let me but say, when -I return to my home, that I have seen -him, and I shall be overjoyed.” Calantha -made room for the enthusiastic Lady:—she -approached—she offered her hand -to the deliverer of his Country as she -called him:—he accepted it with grace, -but some embarrassment. The rush was -then general: everyone would see—would -speak to their Lord—their King; and -the fashionable reserve which affectation -had, for a moment, taught the good people -of Belfont to assume, soon vanished, -when nature spoke in their bosoms: so -that had not the performers of the grand -<i>concerto</i> called to order, Lord Glenarvon -had been absolutely obliged to make his -retreat. The mystery in which his fate -appeared involved, his youth, his misfortunes, -his brave conduct, and perhaps -even his errors awakened this interest -in such as beheld him. But he turned -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_131' href='#Page_131'>131</a></span> -from the gaze of strangers with bitterness. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you allow me to seat myself near -you?” he said, approaching Calantha’s -chair. “Can you ask?” “Without -asking, I would not. You may possibly -stay till late: I shall go early. My only -inducement in coming here was you.” -“Was me! Do not say, what I am well -assured is not true.” “I never say what -I do not feel. Your presence here alone -makes me endure all this fulsome flattery, -noise, display. If you dance—that is, -when you dance, I shall retire.” -</p> - -<p> -The concert now began with frequent -bursts of applause. All were silent:—suddenly -a general murmur proclaimed -some new and unexpected event:—a -young performer appeared. Was it a -boy! Such grace—such beauty, soon -betrayed her: it was Miss St. Clare. She -could not hope for admittance in her own -character; yet, under a feigned name, -she had promised to assist at the performance; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_132' href='#Page_132'>132</a></span> -and the known popularity of -her songs, and the superior sweetness of -her voice, prevented the professors from -enquiring too much into the propriety of -such an arrangement. -</p> - -<p> -Messieurs John Maclane and Creighton -had just been singing in Italian, an -opera buffa. The noise they had made -was such, that even the most courteous -had been much discountenanced. A moment’s -pause ensued; when, without one -blush of modest diffidence, but, on the -contrary, with an air of dauntless and -even contemptuous effrontery, the youthful -performer seized her harp—Glenarvon’s -harp—and singing, whilst her dark -brilliant eyes were fixed upon him alone, -she gave vent to the emotions of her own -bosom, and drew tears of sympathy from -many another. The words were evidently -made at the moment; and breathed -from the heart. She studied not the composition, -but the air was popular, and for -that cause it had effect. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_133' href='#Page_133'>133</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -The admiration for the young enthusiast -was checked by the extreme disgust -her shameless ill conduct had occasioned. -The tears, too, of Sir Everard, who was -present, and audibly called upon his cruel -ungrateful niece, extorted a stronger feeling -of sympathy than her lawless and -guilty love. She retired the moment -she had ended her song, and the commotion -her presence had excited subsided -with her departure. -</p> - -<p> -The heiress of Delaval, decked in -splendid jewels, had not lost by comparison -with the deserted Elinor. She was -the reigning favourite of the moment: -every one observed it, and smiled upon -her the more on that account. To be the -favourite of the favoured was too much. -The adulation paid to her during the -evening; and the caresses lavished upon -her had possibly turned a wiser head than -her’s; but alas! a deeper interest employed -her thoughts, and Glenarvon’s attention -was her sole object. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_134' href='#Page_134'>134</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Calantha had felt agitated and serious -during Miss St. Clare’s performance. -Lord Glenarvon had conversed with his -customary ease; yet something had -wounded her. Perhaps she saw, in the -gaze of strangers, that this extreme and -sudden intimacy was observed; or possibly -her heart reproached her. She felt -that not vanity alone, nor even enthusiasm, -was the cause of her present emotion. -She knew not, nor could imagine -the cause; but, with seeming inconsistency, -after refusing positively to dance, -she sent for Buchanan and joined in that -delectable amusement; and, as if the desire -of exercise had superseded every -other, she danced on with an energy -and perseverance, which excited the -warmest approbation in all. “What -spirits Lady Avondale has!” said one. -“How charming she is!” cried another. -She herself only sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you ever read a tragedy of -Ford’s?” whispered Lady Augusta to Calantha, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_135' href='#Page_135'>135</a></span> -as soon as she had ceased to exhibit—“a -tragedy entitled <i>The Broken -Heart</i>.” “No,” she replied, half vexed, -half offended. “At this moment you put -me vastly in mind of it. You look most -woefully. Come, tell me truly, is not -your heart in torture? and, like your -namesake Calantha, while lightly dancing -the gayest in the ring, has not the -shaft already been struck, and shall you -not die ere you attain the goal?” She -indeed felt nearly ready to do so; and -fanning herself excessively, declared, that -it was dreadfully hot—that she should -absolutely expire of the heat: yet while -talking and laughing with those who -surrounded her, her eye looked cautiously -round, eager to behold the resentment -and expected frowns of him -whom she had sought to offend; but -there was no frown on Lord Glenarvon’s -brow—no look of resentment. -</p> - -<p> -“And are you happy?” he said, approaching -her with gentleness. “Perhaps -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_136' href='#Page_136'>136</a></span> -so, since some can rejoice in the sufferings -of others. Yet I forgive you, because -I know you are not yourself. I see -you are acting from pique; but you have -no cause; for did you know my heart, and -could you feel what it suffers on your account, -your doubts would give way to far -more alarming suspicions.” He paused, for -she turned abruptly from him. “Dance -on then, Lady Avondale,” he continued, -“the admiration of those for whose society -you were formed—the easy prey of -every coxcomb to whom that ready hand -is so continually offered, and which I -have never once dared to approach. Such -is the respect which will ever be shewn to -the object of real admiration, interest and -regard, although that object seems willing -to forget that it is her due. But,” -added he, assuming that air of gaiety he -had one moment laid aside, “I detain -you, do I not? See Colonel Donallan -and the Italian Count await you.” “You -mistake me,” she said gravely; “I could -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_137' href='#Page_137'>137</a></span> -not presume to imagine that my dancing -would be heeded by you:—I could have -no motive——” “None but the dear delight -of tormenting,” said he, “which -gave a surprising elasticity to your step, -I can assure you. Indubitably had not -that impulse assisted, you could not thus -have excelled yourself.” “If you knew,” -she said, “what I suffer at this moment -you would spare me. Why do you deride -me?” “Because, oh Lady Avondale, -I dare not—I cannot speak to you -more seriously. I feel that I have no -right—no claim on you. I dread offending; -but to-morrow I shall expiate all; -for I leave you to-morrow.—Yes, it must -be so. I am going from Ireland. Indeed -I was going before I had the misery -of believing that I should leave any thing -in it I could ever regret.” What Calantha -felt, when he said this, cannot be described. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you dance the two next dances -with me?” said Colonel Donallan, now approaching. -“I am tired: will you excuse -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_138' href='#Page_138'>138</a></span> -me? I believe our carriages are ordered.” -“Oh surely you will not go away -before supper.” “Ask Lady Mandeville -what she means to do.” “Lady Trelawney -and Miss Seymour stay.” “Then -perhaps I shall.” The Colonel bowed -and retired.—“Give me the rose you -wear,” said Glenarvon in a low voice, -“in return for the one I presented you at -Donallan Park.” “Must I?” “You -must,” said he, smiling. With some -hesitation, she obeyed; yet she looked -around in hopes no vigilant eye might observe -her. She took it from her bosom, and -gave it tremblingly into his hands. A large -pier glass reflected the scene to the whole -company. The rose thus given, was received -with transport. It said more, thus -offered, than a thousand words:—it was -taken and pressed to a lover’s lips, till all -its blushing beauties were gone, then it -was cast down on the earth to be trampled -upon by many. And had Calantha -wished it, she might have read in the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_139' href='#Page_139'>139</a></span> -history of the flower, the fate that ever attends -on guilty love. -</p> - -<p> -And was it love she felt so soon—so -strongly!—It is not possible. Alarmed, -grieved, flattered at his altered manner, -she turned aside to conceal the violent, -the undefinable emotions, to which she -had become a prey:—a dream of ecstasy -for one moment fluttered in her heart; -but the recollection of Lord Avondale recurring, -she started with horror from herself—from -him; and, abruptly taking -leave, retired. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you going?” said Glenarvon. -“I am ill,” she answered. “Will you -suffer me to accompany you?” he said, -as he assisted her into her carriage; “or -possibly it is not the custom in this country:—you -mistrust me—you think it -wrong.”—“No,” she answered with embarrassment; -and he seated himself by -her side. The distance to the castle was -short. Lord Glenarvon was more respectful, -more reserved, more silent than -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_140' href='#Page_140'>140</a></span> -before he had entered the carriage. On -quitting it alone, he pressed her hand to -his heart, and bade her feel for the agony -she had implanted there. None, perhaps, -ever before felt what she did at this -instant.... -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_141' href='#Page_141'>141</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIV. -</h2> - - -<p> -If any indifferent person approach us, it -either is disagreeable, or at least unimportant; -but when it is a person we love, -it thrills through the heart, and we are -unable to speak or to think. Could she -have imagined, that Lord Glenarvon felt -for her, she had been lost. But that was -impossible; and yet his manner;—it was -so marked, there could be no doubt. She -was inexperienced, we may add, innocent; -though no doubt sufficiently prepared -to become every thing that was -the reverse. Yet in a moment she felt -her own danger, and resolved to guard -against it. How then can so many affirm, -when they know that they are loved, that -it is a mere harmless friendship! how can -they, in palliation of their errors, bring -forward the perpetually repeated excuse, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_142' href='#Page_142'>142</a></span> -that they were beguiled! The heart that -is chaste and pure will shrink the soonest -from the very feeling that would pollute -it:—in vain it would attempt to deceive -itself: the very moment we love, or are -loved, something within us points out the -danger:—even when we fly from him, to -whom we could attach ourselves, we feel -a certain embarrassment—an emotion, -which is not to be mistaken; and, in a -lover’s looks, are there not a thousand -assurances and confessions which no denial -of words can affect to disguise? -</p> - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon had denied to Calantha -the possibility of his ever again feeling attachment. -This had not deceived her; -but she was herself too deeply and suddenly -struck to the heart to venture to -hope for a return. Besides, she did not -think of this as possible:—he seemed to -her so far above her—so far above everything. -She considered him as entirely -different from all others; and, if not superior, -at least dissimilar and consequently -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_143' href='#Page_143'>143</a></span> -not to be judged of by the same criterion. -</p> - -<p> -It is difficult to explain Calantha’s peculiar -situation with respect to Lord Avondale. -Yet it is necessary briefly to state -in what manner they were situated at this -particular period; for otherwise, all that -is related must appear like a mere fable, -improbable and false. They were dearer -to each other perhaps, than any two who -had been so long united in marriage. -They loved each other with more passion, -more enthusiasm than is often retained; -but they were, from a thousand circumstances, -utterly estranged at this time; -and that apparently by mutual consent—like -two violent spirits which had fretted -and chafed and opposed each other, till -both were sore and irritated. -</p> - -<p> -In the course of years, they had said -every thing that was most galling and -bitter; and though the ardent attachment -they really felt, had ever followed those -momentary bursts of fury, the veil had -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_144' href='#Page_144'>144</a></span> -been torn aside—that courtesy, which -none should ever suffer themselves to forget, -had been broken through, and they -had yielded too frequently to the sudden -impulse of passion, ever to feel secure that -the ensuing moment might not produce a -scene of discord. -</p> - -<p> -A calm, a deliberate tyrant, had vanquished -Calantha; a violent one could -not. When provoked, Lord Avondale -was too severe; and when he saw her miserable -and oppressed, it gave him more -suffering than if he had himself been -subdued. There are few spirits which -cannot be overcome if dexterously attacked; -but with the fierce and daring, -force and violence will generally be -found useless. It should be remembered -that, like madness, these disturbed characters -see not things as they are; and, -like martyrs and fanatics, they attach a -degree of glory to every privation and -punishment in the noble cause of opposition -to what they conceive is unjust authority. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_145' href='#Page_145'>145</a></span> -Such a character is open and -guileless; but unhappily, the very circumstance -that makes it sincere, renders -it also, if misturned, desperate and hardened. -</p> - -<p> -During the first years of their marriage, -these tumultuous scenes but strengthened -the attachment they felt for each other; -but when Lord Avondale’s profession absorbed -his mind, he dreaded a recurrence -of what had once so fully engrossed his -thoughts. He left Calantha, therefore, to -the guidance of that will, which she had -so long and pertinaciously indulged. Absent, -pre-occupied, he saw not, he heard -not, the misuse she made of her entire -liberty. Some trifle, perhaps, at times, -reached his ear; a scene of discord ensued; -much bitterness on both sides followed: -and the conviction that they no -longer loved each other, added considerably -to the violence of recrimination. -They knew not how deeply rooted affection -such as they had once felt, must ever -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_146' href='#Page_146'>146</a></span> -be—how the very ties that compelled -them to belong to each other, strengthened, -in fact, the attachment which inclination -and love had first inspired; but, -with all the petulance and violence of -character natural to each, they fled -estranged and offended from each other’s -society. -</p> - -<p> -Lord Avondale sought, in an active and -manly profession, for some newer interest, -in which every feeling of ambition could -have part; and she, surrendering her -soul to the illusive dream of a mad and -guilty attachment, boasted that she had -found again the happiness she had lost; -and contrasted even the indifference of -her husband, to the ardour, the devotion, -the refined attention of a newly acquired -friend. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_147' href='#Page_147'>147</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XV. -</h2> - - -<p> -O better had it been to die than to see -and hear Glenarvon. When he smiled, it -was like the light radiance of heaven; and -when he spoke, his voice was more soothing -in its sweetness than music. He was -so gentle in his manners, that it was in -vain even to affect to be offended; and, -though he said he never again could love, -he would describe how some had died, -and others maddened, under the power -of that fierce passion—how every tie that -binds us, and every principle and law, -must be broken through, as secondary -considerations, by its victims:—he would -speak home to the heart; for he knew it in -all its turnings and windings; and, at his -will, he could rouze or tame the varying -passions of those over whom he sought to -exercise dominion. Yet, when by every -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_148' href='#Page_148'>148</a></span> -art and talent he had raised the scorching -flames of love, tearing himself from his -victim, he would leave her, then weep for -the agony of grief by which he saw her -destroyed. -</p> - -<p> -Had he betrayed in his manner to Calantha -that freedom, that familiarity so offensive -in men, but yet so frequent amongst -them, she would yet have shuddered. -But what was she to fly? Not from the -gross adulation, or the easy flippant protestations -to which all women are soon or -late accustomed; but from a respect, at -once refined and flattering—an attention -devoted even to her least wishes, yet -without appearing subservient—a gentleness -and sweetness, as rare as they -were fascinating; and these combined -with all the powers of imagination, vigour -of intellect, and brilliancy of wit, -which none ever before possessed in so -eminent a degree; and none ever since -have even presumed to rival. Could she -fly from a being unlike all others—sought -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_149' href='#Page_149'>149</a></span> -for by every one, yet, by his own -confession, wholly and entirely devoted -to herself. -</p> - -<p> -How cold, compared with Glenarvon -was the regard her family and friends affected! -Was it confidence in her honour, -or indifference? Lord Glenarvon asked -Calantha repeatedly, which it most resembled—he -appealed to her vanity even, -whether strong affection could thus neglect -and leave the object of its solicitude? -Yet, had she done nothing to -chill a husband and parent’s affection—had -she not herself lessened the regard -they had so faithfully cherished? -</p> - -<p> -Calantha thought she had sufficient -honour and spirit to tell her husband at -once the danger to which she was exposed; -but when she considered more -seriously her situation, it appeared to her -almost ridiculous to fancy that it was so -imminent. If upon some occasion, Lord -Glenarvon’s manner was ardent, the ensuing -morning she found him cold, distant -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_150' href='#Page_150'>150</a></span> -and pre-occupied, and she felt -ashamed of the weakness which for one -moment could have made her imagine -she was the object of his thoughts. Indeed, -he often took an opportunity of -stating, generally, that he never could feel -either interest or love for any thing on -earth; that once he had felt too deeply -and had suffered bitterly from it; and -that now his sole regret was in the certainty -that he never again could be so deceived. -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with decision of leaving Ireland, -and more than once repeated, emphatically -to the Duke, “I shall never -forget the kindness which prompted you -to seek me out, when under very unpleasant -circumstances; I shall immediately -withdraw my name from the club; my -sentiments I cannot change: but you have -already convinced me of the folly of -spreading them amongst the unenlightened -multitude.” -</p> - -<p> -Sir Everard, who was present, lifted up -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_151' href='#Page_151'>151</a></span> -his hands at such discourse. “He is a -convert of mine, I verily believe,” he -cried; “and Elinor”—“Miss St. Clare,” -whispered Glenarvon, turning to the Doctor, -“has long been admonished by me, -to return to an indulgent uncle, and -throw herself on your mercy.” “My -mercy!” said Sir Everard, bursting into -tears,—“my gratitude. Oh! my child, -my darling.” “And believe me,” continued -Lord Glenarvon, with an air which -seemed haughtily to claim belief, “I return -her as innocent as she came to me. -Her imagination may have bewildered -and beguiled her; but her principles are -uncorrupted.” “Generous young nobleman!” -exclaimed Sir Everard, ready to -kneel before him—“noble, mighty, -grand young gentleman! wonder of our -age!” Lord Glenarvon literally smiled -through his tears; for the ridicule of Sir -Everard did not prevent his excellent -and warm feelings from affecting those -who knew him well. “And will she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_152' href='#Page_152'>152</a></span> -return to her poor uncle?” “I know -not,” said Lord Glenarvon, gravely: “I -fear not; but I have even implored her -to do so.” “Oh, if you fail who are so -fair and so persuasive, who can hope to -move her?” “She may hear a parent’s -voice,” said Glenarvon, “even though -deaf to a lover’s prayer.” “And are you -indeed a lover to my poor deluded Elinor?” -“I was,” said Lord Glenarvon, -proudly; “but her strange conduct, and -stubborn spirit have most effectually cured -me; and I must own, Sir Everard, I do -not think I ever again can even affect a -feeling of that sort: after all, it is a useless -way of passing life.” “You are -right,” said the Doctor; “quite right; -and it injures the health; there is nothing -creates bile, and hurts the constitution -more, than suspense and fretting:—I -know it by myself.” -</p> - -<p> -They were standing in the library during -this discourse. Lady Avondale entered -now; Lord Glenarvon approached -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_153' href='#Page_153'>153</a></span> -her. They were for a few moments alone:—he -lent over her; she held a book in -her hand; he read a few lines: it is not -possible to describe how well he read -them. The poetry he read was beautiful -as his own: it affected him. He read -more; he became animated; Calantha -looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he -forgot the poem; his hand touched hers, -as he replaced the book before her; she -drew away her hand; he took it and put -it to his lips. “Pardon me,” he said, -“I am miserable: but I will never injure -you. Fly me, Lady Avondale: I -deserve not either interest or regard; -and to look upon me is in itself pollution -to one like you.” He then said a few -words expressive of his admiration for -her husband:—“He is as superior to me,” -he said, “as Hyperion to a satyr:—and -you love him, do you not?” continued -he, smiling. “Can you ask?” “He -seems most attached, too, to you.” “Far, -far more than I deserve.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_154' href='#Page_154'>154</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -“I can never love again,” said Glenarvon, -still holding her hand: “never. -There will be no danger in my friendship,” -he said after a moment’s thought: -“none; for I am cold as the grave—as -death; and all here,” he said pressing -her hand upon his heart, “is chilled, -lost, absorbed. They will speak ill of -me,” he continued rather mournfully; -“and you will learn to hate me.” “I! -never, never. I will defend you, if abused; -I will hate those who hate you; I—” -He smiled: “How infatuated you are,” -he said, “poor little thing that seeks to -destroy itself. Have you not then -heard what I have done?” “I have heard -much” said Calantha, “but I know—I feel -it is false.” “It is all too true,” said -Lord Glenarvon carelessly:—“all quite -true; and there is much worse yet:”—“But -it is no matter,” he continued; -“the never dying worm feeds upon my -heart: I am like death, Lady Avondale; -and all beneath is seared.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_155' href='#Page_155'>155</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Whilst the conscience wakes, and the -blush of confused and trembling guilt -yet varies the complexion, the sin is not -of long standing, or of deep root; but -when the mind seeks to disguise from -itself its danger,—when, playing upon -the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly -deludes itself, and appears hard -and callous to every admonitory caution, -then is the moment for alarm; and that -moment now appeared to realize Calantha’s -fears. -</p> - -<p> -Attacked with some asperity by her numerous -friends, for her imprudent conduct, -she now boldly avowed her friendship -for Glenarvon, and disclaimed the possibility -of its exceeding the bounds which -the strictest propriety had rendered necessary. -She even gloried in his attachment; -and said that there was not one of -those who were admonishing her to -beware who would not readily, nay, even -gladly fill her place. Calantha had seen -their letters to him: she had marked -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_156' href='#Page_156'>156</a></span> -their advances—too fatal symptom of the -maddening disease! she really imagined -that all others like herself, were enamoured -with the same idol; and in this -instance she was right:—the infatuation -was general: he was termed the leader -of the people, the liberator of his country, -the defender of the rights of Ireland. -If he wandered forth through Belfont, he -was followed by admiring crowds; and -whilst he affected to disdain the transient -homage, she could not but perceive that -he lost no opportunity by every petty artifice -of encreasing the illusion. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_157' href='#Page_157'>157</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVI. -</h2> - - -<p> -At this crisis the whole party at the castle -were disturbed by the unexpected arrival -of the Princess of Madagascar at -Dublin. A small fleet had been seen approaching -the coast: it was rumoured -that the French in open boats were preparing -to invade Ireland; but it proved, -though it may sound rather ludicrous to -say so, only the great Nabob and the Princess -of Madagascar. Their immense -retinue and baggage, which the common -people took for the heavy artillery, arrived -without incident or accident at Belfont; -and the couriers having prepared the -Duke for the reception of his illustrious -guest, they awaited her arrival with considerable -impatience. -</p> - -<p> -During the bustle and noise this little -event occasioned, Lord Glenarvon came -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_158' href='#Page_158'>158</a></span> -to Lady Avondale and whispered in her -ear, “I shall walk this evening: contrive -to do so as I have something of importance -to tell you.” As he spoke, he pretended -to pick up a ring. “Is this -yours?” he said. “No.” “It is,” he -whispered; and placed it himself upon -her finger. It was an emerald with an -harp engraved upon it—the armorial -bearing of Ireland: “let us be firm and -united,” was written under. “I mean it -merely politically,” he said smiling. -“Even were you a Clarissa, you need -not be alarmed: I am no Lovelace, I promise -you.” -</p> - -<p> -The princess was now announced, fifty-three -attendants and twenty-four domestic -friends, were her small and concientious -establishment, besides a cook, confectioner -and laundress, to the total discomfiture -of Irish hospitality. The high -priest in the dress of the greek church, -ever attended her, and eagerly sought to -gain adherents to the only true established -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_159' href='#Page_159'>159</a></span> -church, at whatever house he occasionally -rested. The simplicity of Hoiouskim, -his eagerness, his abilities and information, -added an agreeable variety at Castle -Delaval. -</p> - -<p> -But neither the presence of the Nabob -nor the caresses of the princess who cast -many a gentle glance upon Glenarvon -could for one moment detach his thoughts -from Calantha. On the contrary he answered -her with distant reserve and appeared -eager to shew to every one the -marked distinction he felt for the woman -he loved. Oh! he is really sincere, she -thought as he left them all to attend to -her. “I amuse—I soothe him,” the -hope rendered her blest and she felt indifferent -to every consequence. -</p> - -<p> -“You are not as pretty as Sophia,” -said Glenarvon looking on her; “but -I admire you more. Your errors are -such as you have frankly confessed; but -you have others which you wished me -not to perceive. Few have so many -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_160' href='#Page_160'>160</a></span> -faults, yet how is it that you have wound -yourself already around this cold, this -selfish heart, which had resolved never -again to admit any. You love your -husband Lady Avondale: I respect you -too well to attempt to change your affection; -but if I wished it, your eyes already -tell me what power I have gained:—I -could do what I would.” “No, no,” she -answered. “You are too vain.” “None -ever yet resisted me,” said Glenarvon, -“do you think you could?” Calantha -scarce knew how to answer; but while -she assured him she could resist any one -and had no fear for herself, she felt the -contrary; and trembled with mixed apprehensions -of joy and sorrow at her -boast—when others approached, he did -not change: his manner to Calantha: -he discontinued his conversation; but -he still looked the same: he was not fearful -as some would have been, or servile, -or full of what might be said:—he seemed -in all respects careless or desperate. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_161' href='#Page_161'>161</a></span> -He laughed, but his laugh was not the -heart’s laugh: his wit enlivened and -dazzled others; but it seemed not the -effect of exuberant spirits. -</p> - -<p> -It was not unfrequently the custom at -Castle Delaval, during the fine summer -evenings, to walk after dinner, before -cards or music. The flower gardens, -and shrubbery were the most usual places -of resort. Lady Augusta smilingly observed -to Lady Mandeville and Sophia, -that, for some evenings past, Lady Avondale -had taken more extensive rambles, -and that Lord Glenarvon and she were -oftentimes absent till supper was announced. -The Count Gondimar, who -overheard the remark, affected to think -it malignant, and asked with a sarcastic -sneer, whether Lord Avondale were with -her on these evening excursions? “Little -Mowbray seems a great favourite of Lord -Glenarvon’s,” said Lady Augusta; “but I -do not fancy his father is often of the party, -or that his being Lady Avondale’s child -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_162' href='#Page_162'>162</a></span> -is the cause of it: the boy has a sprightly -wit. We must not draw unfair conclusions: -last year Mr. Buchanan gave us -alarm; and now, it is quite natural we -should all fall in love with Lord Glenarvon. -I have myself; only he will not return -my advances. Did you observe -what an eye I made him at breakfast?... -but that never was a love making meal. -Place me but near him at supper, and -you shall see what I can do.” -</p> - -<p> -Gondimar suddenly left Lady Augusta, -who was walking on the terrace. He -had caught a glimpse of Calantha as she -wandered slowly by the banks of Elle:—he -hastened to the spot; he saw her; he -penetrated her feelings; and he returned -thoughtful and irritated to the Castle. -Snatching a pen, he wrote for some time. -Lady Trelawney and Lady Augusta, observing -him, approached and insisted -upon being made acquainted with his -studies. “It is an ode you are inditing, -I am certain,” said the latter, “I saw you -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_163' href='#Page_163'>163</a></span> -struck by the God as you darted from -me.” “You are right,” cried Gondimar, -“I am composing a song.” “In -English too, I perceive.” “What, if it be -English? you know one of my talents, -can write even in that d——d language: -so criticise my rhapsody if you dare. At -all events, Lady Avondale will admire it; -for it is about a rose and love—most sentimental. -And where is she? for till her -return, I will not shew it you.” -</p> - -<p> -If that question, where is Lady Avondale? -must be answered, it is with sorrow -and regret that such answer will be made:—she -was walking slowly, as Gondimar -had seen her, by the banks of the river -Elle: she was silent, too, and mournful; -her spirits were gone; her air was that -of one who is deeply interested in all she -hears. She was not alone—Lord Glenarvon -was by her side. It was their -custom thus to walk: they met daily; -they took every opportunity of meeting; -and when in their morning and evening -rambles she pointed out the beautiful -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_164' href='#Page_164'>164</a></span> -views around, the ranging mountains, -and the distant ocean,—he would describe, -in glowing language, the far more -magnificent and romantic scenery of -the countries through which he had -passed—countries teaming with rich -fruits, vinyards and olive groves; luxuriant -vales and mountains, soaring above -the clouds, whose summits were white -with snow, while a rich and ceaseless vegetation -adorned the valleys beneath. He -told her that he hated these cold northern -climes, and the bottle green of the Atlantic;—that -could she see the dark blue of -the Mediterranean, whose clear wave reflected -the cloudless sky, she would never -be able to endure those scenes in which -she now took such delight. And soon -those scenes lost all their charms for Calantha; -for that peace of mind which -gave them charms was fast departing; -and she sighed for that beautiful land to -which his thoughts reverted, and those -Italian climes, to which he said, he so -soon must return. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_165' href='#Page_165'>165</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVII. -</h2> - - -<p> -It was upon this, evening, that, having -walked for a considerable time Lady -Avondale felt fatigued and rested for a -moment near the banks of Elle. She -pointed to the roses which grew luxuriantly -around. “They are no longer -rare,” she said alluding to the one he had -given her upon their first acquaintance -at Donallan: “but are they the less prized?” -He understood her allusion, and -pulling a bud from the mossy bank -on which it grew, he kissed it, and -putting it gently to her lips asked her, -if the perfume were sweet, and which -she preferred of the two roses which -he had offered her? She knew not -what she answered; and she afterwards -wished she could forget what she had -then felt. -</p> - -<p> -Gondimar passed by them at that moment:—He -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_166' href='#Page_166'>166</a></span> -observed her confusion; he -retired as if fearful of encreasing it; and, -but too conscious that such conversation -was wrong, Calantha attempted once to -change it. “I will shew you the new -lodge,” she said turning up a large gravel -walk, out of the shrubbery. “Shew me!” -Glenarvon answered smiling. “Trust me, -I know every lodge and walk here better -than yourself;” and he amused himself -with her surprise. Some thought, however, -occurred, which checked his merriment—some -remembrances made this -boast of his acquaintance with the place -painful to him. There was one, whom -he had formerly seen and admired, who -was no longer present and whom every -one but himself appeared to have forgotten—one -who lovely in the first bloom -of spotless youth; had felt for him all -that even his heart could require. She -was lost—he should never see her -more. -</p> - -<p> -A momentary gloom darkened his -countenance at this recollection. He -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_167' href='#Page_167'>167</a></span> -looked upon Calantha and she trembled; -for his manner was much altered. Her -cheeks kindled as he spoke:—her eye -dared no longer encounter his. If she -looked up for a moment, she withdrew -in haste, unable to sustain the ardent -glance: her step tremblingly advanced, -lingering, but yet not willingly retreating. -Her heart beat in tumult, or swelled -with passion, as he whispered to her that, -which she ought never to have heard. -She hastened towards the castle:—he did -not attempt to detain her. -</p> - -<p> -It was late: the rest of the company -were gone home. Thither she hastened; -and hurrying to the most crowded part of -the room, flushed with her walk, she complained -of the heat, and thought that -every eye was fixed upon her with looks -of strong disapprobation. Was it indeed -so? or was it a guilty conscience which -made her think so? -</p> - -<p> -Lady Mandeville, observing her distress, -informed her that Count Gondimar, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_168' href='#Page_168'>168</a></span> -had been composing a song, but would -not sing it till she was present. She -eagerly desired to hear it. “It is about -a rose,” said Gondimar, significantly -glancing his eye upon the one in Calantha’s -bosom. The colour in her cheeks -became redder far than the rose. “Sing -it,” she said, “or rather let me read it ... -or ... but wherefore are you not dancing, -or at billiards? How dull it must -be for Clara and Charlotte” (these were -two of Lady Mandeville’s children). -“You never thought of Lady Mandeville’s -beautiful children, and our state -of dullness, while you were walking,” -cried Lady Augusta, “and last night you -recollect that when you made every one -dance, you sat apart indulging vain phantasies -and idle reveries. However, they -are all gone into the ball-room, if dancing -is the order of the night; but as for me, -I shall not stir from this spot, till I hear -Count Gondimar’s song.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will sing it you, Lady Avondale,” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_169' href='#Page_169'>169</a></span> -said the Count, smiling at her distress, -“the first evening that you remain at -your balcony alone, watching the clouds -as they flit across the moon, and listening, -I conclude, to the strains of the nightingale.” -“Then,” she said, affecting unconcern, -“I claim your promise for to-morrow -night, punctually at nine.” He -approached the piano-forte. “Ah not -now—I am engaged,—I must dance.” -“Now or never,” said the Count. “Never -then, never,” she answered, almost crying, -though she affected to laugh. Lady -Augusta entreated for the song, and the -Count, after a short prelude, placed the -manuscript paper before him, and in a -low tone of voice began:— -</p> - - -<p class="center"> -(To the air of “<i>Ils ne sont plus</i>.”) -</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing,</p> -<p class="i1">Smooth and untroubled, through the flow’ry vale:</p> -<p>O’er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing,</p> -<p class="i1">Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_170' href='#Page_170'>170</a></span></p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Here ’twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing,</p> -<p class="i1">One still too dear, first breath’d his vows to thee:</p> -<p>Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing,</p> -<p class="i1">Near to thy heart, in memory of me.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Love’s cherished gift, the rose he gave, is faded;</p> -<p class="i1">Love’s blighted flower, can never bloom again.</p> -<p>Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded:</p> -<p class="i1">Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Call back the vows, that once to heaven were plighted,</p> -<p class="i1">Vows full of love, of innocence and truth.</p> -<p>Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted:</p> -<p class="i1">Call back the dream that blest thy early youth.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Flow silver stream, tho’ threatening tempests lower,</p> -<p class="i1">Bright, mild and clear, thy gentle waters flow;</p> -<p>Round thy green banks, the spring’s young blossoms flower;</p> -<p class="i1">O’er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>—Yet, all in vain; for never spring arraying</p> -<p class="i1">Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair.</p> -<p>Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtraying</p> -<p class="i1">Years past of bliss, and future of despair.</p> -</div></div></div> - - -<div class="figcenter h60e80"> -<a id="i-173"></a> -<img src="images/i-173.png" alt="To the tune of Ils ne sont plus" /> -<p class="caption s08"> -Sid<sup>y</sup>. Hall sculp<sup>t</sup>. -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Gondimar seemed affected whilst he -sung; and Calantha felt nearly suffocated -with every sort of feeling. Lady Augusta -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_171' href='#Page_171'>171</a></span> -pretended not to understand it, and hastened -with Calantha into the adjoining -room. Lord Glenarvon followed and -approached Lady Avondale: “Remember -me in your prayers, my gentlest friend,” -he whispered. “Even in the still night -let some remembrance of Glenarvon -occur. Think of me, for I am jealous -even of thy dreams.” The angry glance -of Gondimar interrupted the conference. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha could not sleep that night. -A thousand fears and hopes rushed upon -her mind. She retired to her room: -at one time seized a pen, and wrote, in all -the agony of despair, a full confession of -her guilty feelings to her husband; the -next she tore the dreadful testimony of -her erring heart, and addressed herself to -heaven for mercy. But vain the struggle. -From childhood’s earliest day she never -had refused herself one wish, one prayer. -She knew not on the sudden how to -curb the fierce and maddening fever that -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_172' href='#Page_172'>172</a></span> -raged within. “I am lost,” she cried, -“I love—I worship. To live without -him will be death—worse, worse than -death. One look, one smile from Glenarvon, -is dearer than aught else that -heaven has to offer. Then let me not -attempt, what I have not power to effect. -Oh, as his friend, let me still behold him. -His love, some happier, some better heart -shall possess.” Again she started with -horror from herself. “His love!” she -cried, “and can I think of him in so -criminal—so guilty a manner! I who -am a wife, and more—a mother! Let -me crush such feelings even now in their -birth. Let me fly him, whilst yet it is -possible; nor imagine the grief, he says -my absence will cause, can exceed the -misery my dishonourable attachment will -bring upon both! And did he dare to -tell me that he loved me? Was not this -in itself a proof that he esteemed me no -longer? Miserable, wretched Calantha; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_173' href='#Page_173'>173</a></span> -where shall I fly to hide my shame? How -conceal from a lover’s searching eyes that -he is too dear?” -</p> - -<p> -With such thoughts she attempted -to close her eyes; but dreadful dreams -disturbed her fancy; and the image of -Glenarvon pursued her even in sleep. -She saw him—not kneeling at her feet, -in all the impassioned transports of love; -not radiant with hope, nor even mournful -with despondency and fear; but pale, -deadly, and cold: his hand was ice, and -as he placed it upon hers, she shrunk as -from the grasp of death, and awoke oppressed -with terror. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_174' href='#Page_174'>174</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -No one had apparently observed Lady -Avondale’s feigned indisposition that evening—feigned, -indeed, it was not; no one -soothed her during her sleepless night; -and in the morning when she awoke, at -an early hour, Lord Avondale asked her -not the cause of her disquiet. She arose -and descended upon the terrace:—her -steps involuntarily led her to the banks -of the Elle. The flowers, fresh with -dew, sparkled in the sunshine, and scented -the soft morning air. She hurried on, -regardless of the distance. The rose he -had given her was faded; but its leaves -were preserved by her with fondest -care. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst yet she walked, at a little distance -she perceived Gondimar, and was in consequence -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_175' href='#Page_175'>175</a></span> -preparing to return, when he -abruptly accosted her; and with a manner -too little respectful, rudely seized her -hand. “Have you not slept?” he cried, -“my charming, my adored young friend, -that you are thus early in your walk; or -did you imagine that others, beside myself -would wander upon these banks, and -await your fairy step? O suffer one who -admires—who loves, to open his heart to -you—to seize this opportunity.” ... “Leave -me—approach me not. What have I -done to deserve this from you?” she exclaimed. -“Why seize my hand by force? -Why press it—oh God! to those detested -lips? Leave me, Count Gondimar: forget -not the respect due to every woman.” -“Of virtue!” he replied, with a scornful -smile. “But tell me, has Lady Avondale -never suffered such insults from -some who have no better claim? Has -she still a right to this amazing mockery -of respect? Ah! trust me, we cannot -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_176' href='#Page_176'>176</a></span> -command our love.” “Neither can we -command our abhorrence—our disgust,” -she exclaimed, breaking from his grasp -and hastening away. -</p> - -<p> -As Calantha re-entered the Castle, she -met Lady Margaret and Glenarvon, who -appeared surprised and disconcerted at -seeing her. “Has Count Gondimar -been speaking to you upon any subject -of importance?” said Lady Margaret in -a whisper, trying to conceal a look of -suspicion, and some embarrassment. -Before Calantha could answer, he had -joined them; and explaining fully that -their meeting had been entirely accidental, -they both walked off together -apparently in earnest discourse, leaving -Lord Glenarvon and Lady Avondale together. -Calantha’s heart was full, she -could not speak, she therefore left him -in haste and when alone she wept. Had -she not reason; for every indignity and -grief was falling fast upon her. She -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_177' href='#Page_177'>177</a></span> -could not tell what had occurred to Lord -Avondale—he had a fierce and dangerous -spirit; and to Glenarvon she would not, -upon every account. Glenarvon awaited -her return with anxiety. “I was surprised -to see you with my aunt,” she said, -“what could you be saying to her.” He -evaded the question, and tenderly enquired -of her the cause of her uneasiness -and tears. He loved beyond a doubt—at -least he convinced Calantha that he -did so. -</p> - -<p> -Confused, perturbed, she, more than ever -felt the danger of her situation: trembling -she met his eyes, fearing lest he should -penetrate her secret. Confident in her own -strength: “I will fly,” she said “though -it be to the utmost extremity of the earth; -but I will never yield—never betray myself. -My fate is sealed—misery must, in -future, be my portion; but no eye shall -penetrate into the recesses of my heart.—none -shall share my distress, or counsel -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_178' href='#Page_178'>178</a></span> -me in my calamity.” Thus she reasoned; -and struggling as she thought, against -her guilty passion, by attempting to -deceive the object of her devotion, she -in reality yielded herself entirely to his -power, self deluded and without controul. -</p> - -<p> -How new to her mind appeared the -fever of her distracted thoughts! Love -she had felt—unhappy love, she had once -for a time experienced; but no taint of -guilt was mingled with the feeling; and -the approach to vice she started from -with horror and alarm. Lord Glenarvon -had succeeded too well—she had seen -him—she had heard him too often; she -fled in vain: he read his empire in the -varying colour of her cheeks; he traced -his power in every faltering word, in -every struggling sigh: that strange silence, -that timid air, that dread of beholding -him—all confirmed, and all -tempted him forward to pursue his easy -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_179' href='#Page_179'>179</a></span> -prey. “She is mine,” he cried exultingly,—“mine, -too, without a struggle,—this -fond wife, this chaste and pure Calantha. -Wherever I turn, new victims -fall before me—they await not to be -courted.” -</p> - -<p> -But Lord Glenarvon had oftentimes -said, that he never again could feel affection -for any woman. How then was -the interest he shewed Calantha to be -accounted for? What name was he to -give it? It was the attachment of a -brother to the sister whom he loved: it -was all devotion—all purity; he would -never cherish a thought that might not -be heard in heaven, or harbour one wish -detrimental to the happiness of his friend. -This was said, as it often has been said: -both felt that it was false; but both -continued to repeat, what they wished to -believe possible. His health and spirits -had much declined; he looked as if -sorrows, which he durst not utter, afflicted -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_180' href='#Page_180'>180</a></span> -his heart; and though, in the -presence of others he affected gaiety, -when alone with Calantha he did not -disguise his sadness. She sought to -console him: she was grave—she was -gentle, she could be both; and the occasion -seemed to call for her utmost -kindness. -</p> - -<p> -He spoke much to her; and sometimes -read as Lord Avondale once had done; -and none ever but Lord Avondale read -as well. His tears flowed for the sorrows -of those whose poetry and history he repeated. -Calantha wept also; but it was -for Glenarvon, that she mourned. When -he had ended the tale of love and sorrow, -his eyes met hers and they spoke more—far -more than words. Perhaps he generously -resolved to contend against his -own feelings; even at times he warned her -of her danger.—But, when he bade -her fly him, he held her hand, as if -to detain her; and when he said the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_181' href='#Page_181'>181</a></span> -passion he cherished would cause the -misery of both, he acknowledged that -her presence alleviated his sufferings, -and that he could not bear to see hers -less. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_182' href='#Page_182'>182</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIX. -</h2> - - -<p> -There are scenes of guilt it would be -horrible to paint—there are hours of -agony it is impossible to describe! All -sympathy recedes from triumphant vice -and the kindest heart burns with indignation -at the bare recital of unpunished -crime. By night, by day, the tortures of -remorse pursued Lady Avondale. In a -husband’s presence, she trembled; from -a parent’s tenderness she turned with affected -coldness; her children, she durst not -look upon. To the throne of heaven, she -no longer offered up one prayer; upon a -sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted -her fancy; and when, at break of day, a -deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead -of relieving a weary spirit, feverish -dreams and maddening apprehensions -disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirely -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_183' href='#Page_183'>183</a></span> -possessed himself of her imagination. -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid -secret, which weighed upon his mind. -He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; -then turn to Calantha, and ask her -what she had heard and seen. His gestures, -his menaces were terrific. He -would talk to the air; then laugh with -convulsive horror; and gazing wildly -around, enquire of her, if there were not -blood upon the earth, and if the ghosts -of departed men had not been seen by -some. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha thought that madness had -fallen upon his mind, and wept to think -that talents such as his were darkened -and shrouded over by so heavy a calamity. -But when the fierce moment was -passed, tears would force their way into -his eyes, and placing her hand upon his -burning head, he would call her his sole -comforter, the only hope that was left him -upon earth; his dearest, his only friend; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_184' href='#Page_184'>184</a></span> -and he would talk to her of happier times; -of virtues that had been early blighted; -of hopes that his own rashness and errors -had destroyed. -</p> - -<p> -It was one day, one dark and fatal day, -when passion raging in his bosom, and -time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly -approached her, and seizing her -with violence, asked her if she returned -his love. “My friendship is ruin,” he -cried; “all alliance with me must cast -disgrace upon the object of my regard. -But, Calantha, you must be mine! May -I not even now call you thus? Shall they -ever persuade you to abandon me? Vain -is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; -“I love you to madness and to distraction—you -know it too well. Why then -suffer me to feel the tortures I endure, -when a word—a look from you could relieve -me. You are not indifferent: say -then that you are not—thou, who alone -canst save me. Here even, in the presence -of heaven, I will open my whole -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_185' href='#Page_185'>185</a></span> -heart before you—that heart is seared -with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed -wounds, incurable and deadly. A few -short years, I have perhaps yet to linger: -thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge -me still lower, whilst I cling to thee for -mercy; but will you do it, because you -have the power?” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha scarce could support herself. -After a moment’s pause, he continued, -“You shall hear me.—Never, since the -hour of my birth, never—I make no exception -of either the living, or, what is -far dearer and more sacred to me, the -dead—never did I love with such mad -and frantic violence as now. O seek not -to disguise it; that love is returned. I -read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; -and whilst, with assumed and barbarous -coldness, you would drive me from you, -your own heart pleads for me; and, like -myself, you love.” -</p> - -<p> -Faint and trembling, Calantha now -leant for support upon that arm which -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_186' href='#Page_186'>186</a></span> -surrounded her, and from which she, in -vain, attempted to shrink. It was a dreadful -moment. Glenarvon, who never yet -had sued in vain, marked every varying -turn of her countenance which too well -expressed his empire and her own weakness. -“I cannot live without you.—Mine -you are—mine you shall ever be,” -he said, “whilst this heart beats with -life.” Then with a smile of exultation, -he seized her in his arms. -</p> - -<p> -Starting however with all the terror -which the first approach to guilt must -ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified -and trembling: “even though my -heart should break in the struggle, let -me not act so basely by him to whom I -am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not -hate me—say only,” he continued, with -more gentleness, and pressing her hand -to his lips—“say only, that you share the -tortures of agony you have inflicted—say -that which I know and see—that I am -loved to adoration—even as I love you.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_187' href='#Page_187'>187</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -With tears she besought him to spare -her. “I feel your power too much,” she -said. “All that I ought not—must not -say, I think and feel. Be satisfied; your -empire is complete. Spare me—save me; -I have not power to feign.” Her tears -fell now unrestrained. “There is no -need of this,” he said, recovering himself; -“you have sealed my fate. A moment -of passion beguiled me: I am calm -now, as when first I met you—calm and -cold, even as yourself. Since it is your -wish, and since my presence makes your -misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often -said; but it shall be alone. My country -I leave without regret; for the chain of -tyranny has encompassed it: friends, I -have none; and thou, who wert as an -angel of light to me—to whom I knelt -for safety and for peace—mayst thou be -blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for -me, nothing can increase the misery I -feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to -share it. This is no lover’s despondency—no -sudden and violent paroxysm occasioned -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_188' href='#Page_188'>188</a></span> -by disappointed passion. It is -uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness -of despair: it is the confession, -not the repining of a heart that was early -blighted and destroyed.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha now interrupted him. “I -alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk not -of leaving me; we may still be friends—we -must never be more.” “Oh! promise -that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon -looked on her with kindness. -“Let no fears dissuade you until I shew -myself unworthy of the trust. Forsake -not him, whose only happiness is in -your affection. I was joyless and without -hope, when first I met you; but the return, -to loneliness and misery, is hard to -bear. Be virtuous, and, if it may be so, -be happy.” “That I never more can -be,” she answered. “You are young in -sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know -not its dangers, its pleasures, or its bitterness. -All this, ere long, will be forgotten.” -“Never forgotten,” she replied, -“oh never!” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_189' href='#Page_189'>189</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XX. -</h2> - - -<p> -Glenarvon wandered forth every evening -by the pale moon, and no one knew -whither he went, and no one marked but -Calantha how late was his return. And -when the rain fell heavy and chill, he -would bare his forehead to the storm; -and faint and weary wander forth, and -often he smiled on others and appeared -calm, whilst the burning fever of his -blood continued to rage within. -</p> - -<p> -Once Calantha followed him, it was -at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld -her, no mark of surprise or joy. She -followed him to the rocks called the Black -Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain -called the Wizzard’s Glen; there was a -lonely cottage near the cleft where St. -Clara, it was said, had taken up her -abode. He knocked; but she was from -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_190' href='#Page_190'>190</a></span> -home: he called; but no one replied -from within. Her harp was left at the -entrance of a bower: a few books and a -table were also there. Glenarvon approached -the harp and leaning upon it, -fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly -upon Calantha. “Others who formerly -felt or feigned interest for me,” he said -“were either unhappy in their marriage, -or in their situation; but you brave every -thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how -little do you know the heart for which you -are preparing to sacrifice so much.” -</p> - -<p> -The place upon which they stood was -wild and romantic; the sea murmured -beneath them; distant sounds reached -them from the caverns; and the boats -passed to and fro within the harbour. The -descent was rugged and dangerous. Calantha -looked first upon the scene, and -then upon Glenarvon: still he leant upon -the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy -remembrances. -</p> - -<p> -“Sing once again,” she said, at length -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_191' href='#Page_191'>191</a></span> -interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I first -heard you:—those notes reached the -heart.” “Did they?” he cried, approaching -her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, -one ardent kiss. The blood rushed from -her heart in alarm and agitation:—she -trembled and turned from him. “There -is no cause,” he said, gently following -her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet -one; the last alone is full of bitterness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Sing to me” she said, confused and -terrified, “for God’s sake, approach me -not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will -sing,” he said, “and check those fears,” -saying which he began. It was not like -a song, but a sort of soft low murmur, -with an air of such expression and empassioned -feeling, that every note said more -than words: it vibrated to the soul. -</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>“Farewell.”</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me,</p> -<p class="i1">I must not—dare not—look on thee;</p> -<p class="i1">Too well thou know’st how dear thou art,</p> -<p class="i1">’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part:</p> -<p class="i1">I wish thee not to share my grief,</p> -<p class="i1">It seeks, it hopes, for no relief. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_192' href='#Page_192'>192</a></span></p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>“Farewell.”</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Come give thy hand, what though we part,</p> -<p class="i1">Thy name is fixed, within my heart;</p> -<p class="i1">I shall not change, nor break the vow</p> -<p class="i1">I made before and plight thee now;</p> -<p class="i1">For since thou may’st not live for me,</p> -<p class="i1">’Tis sweeter far to die for thee.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>“Farewell.”</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Thoult think of me when I am gone</p> -<p class="i1">None shall undo, what I have done;</p> -<p class="i1">Yet even thy love I would resign</p> -<p class="i1">To save thee from remorse like mine;</p> -<p class="i1">Thy tears shall fall upon my grave:</p> -<p class="i1">They still may bless—they cannot save.</p> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="figcenter h60e80"> -<a id="i-197"></a> -<img src="images/i-197.png" alt="Farewell Score" /> -<p class="caption s08"> -Sid<sup>y</sup>. Hall sculp<sup>t</sup>. -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Sing no more,” said Calantha, “let -us return home. I know not what I say, -or do. Judge not of my feelings by -those which predominate in your presence. -I may be weak, I acknowledge your -power, I am lost irretrievably if you are -resolved upon it.” “Calantha”, said Lord -Glenarvon firmly, “you may trust implicitly -to my honor.—These are the last -guilty words, I will ever suffer to pass -my lips. Henceforward consider me only -as your friend—as such accept my hand.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_193' href='#Page_193'>193</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -At that moment, they were interrupted; -a bark from Inis Tara approached the -shore, and O’Kelly, Lord Glenarvon’s -servant, and two other men alighted. -“To avoid observation, I will join my -friends one moment,” he said, “if you -will walk gently home, I can overtake -you,—but, perhaps you will await my return.” -“I will go home: it is late,” -said Calantha. He appeared much vexed; -“well then I will await your return,” -saying this Calantha descended -with him the rugged path down the cliff, -and watched the lessening bark, and heard -the distant shouts from some of his followers -who were assembled in the cavern, -as they hailed his approach to land: after -which a long silence prevailed, alone interrupted -by the rippling of the waves. -The meeting was apparently over: there -were whole parties returning from below, -in different directions. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst yet awaiting lord Glenarvon’s -return, Calantha heard the same air repeated, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_194' href='#Page_194'>194</a></span> -which he had so lately played. -It seemed as if the wind, as it blew along -the wooded shores had struck upon the -chords. It was strange; for Glenarvon -was gone. She turned in haste, and from -above beheld a young man. Ah no—it -was St. Clara. Too soon she saw that it -was her. Her ear had caught the last -murmurs of Glenarvon’s song, and her -hand feebly repeated the strain. But, soon -perceiving Calantha, she gazed with wild -alarm one moment upon her, then, throwing -the plumed hat aside, with a grace and -ease peculiar to herself, she struck the full -chords, and her clear voice ascended -upon the air in soft impassioned numbers. -Lady Avondale heard the words of her -song as it murmured along the breeze. -</p> - - -<p class="center"> -(To the air of, “<i>Hear me swear how much I love</i>.”) -</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>By that smile which made me blest,</p> -<p>And left me soon the wretch you see—</p> -<p>By that heart I once possest,</p> -<p>Which now, they say, is given to thee—</p> -<p>By St. Clara’s wrongs and woes—</p> -<p>Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_195' href='#Page_195'>195</a></span></p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>By those lays which breathe around</p> -<p>A poet’s great and matchless art—</p> -<p>By that voice whose silver sound</p> -<p>Can soothe to peace th’ imprisoned heart—</p> -<p>By every bitter pang I prove—</p> -<p>Trust not young Glenarvon’s love.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,</p> -<p>Bereft of all that made life dear</p> -<p>My health impaired, my spirit breaking,</p> -<p>Yet still too proud to shed one tear:</p> -<p>O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,</p> -<p>Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.</p> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<p>And when at length the hand of death</p> -<p>Shall bid St. Clara’s heart be still—</p> -<p>When struggling with its latest breath,</p> -<p>His image shall her fancy fill,</p> -<p>Ah trust to one whose death shall prove</p> -<p>What fate attends Glenarvon’s love.</p> -</div></div></div> - -<p> -Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to -approach her. “Beautiful, unhappy St. -Clara, I will be your friend—will protect -you.” She ran forward, and climbed the -steep ascent with ease; but the youthful -harper arose—her dark sunny ringlets -waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: -she slightly bowed to Calantha as if in -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_196' href='#Page_196'>196</a></span> -derision; and laughing, as she upheld a -chain with an emerald ring, bounded over -the rocks with an activity, which long -habit had rendered familiar. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha beheld her no more: but the -distant shouts of applause re-echoed as at -first among the caverns and mountains; -and the bark with Lord Glenarvon soon -reappeared in sight. She awaited his return. -As he approached the beach, a -loud murmur of voices from behind the -rock continued. He joined her in a moment. -His countenance was lighted with -the ray of enthusiasm:—his altered manner -shewed the success his efforts had -obtained. He told Calantha of his projects; -he described to her the meetings -which he had held by night and day; -and he spoke with sanguine hope of future -success—the freedom of Ireland, and -the deathless renown of such as supported -her fallen rights. “Some day you must -follow me,” he cried: “let me shew you -the cavern beneath the rock, where I -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_197' href='#Page_197'>197</a></span> -have appointed our meeting for the ensuing -week.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will walk no more with you to -Inis Tara:—the harp sounds mournfully -on those high cliffs:—I wish never more -to hear it.” “Have you seen St. Clara?” -he said, without surprise. “She sings -and plays well, does she not? But she is -not dear to me: think not of her. I could -hate her, but that I pity her. Young as -she is, she is cruelly hardened and -vindictive.”—“I cannot fear her: she is -too young and too beautiful to be as abandoned -as you would make me think.”—“It -is those who are young and beautiful -you should fear most,” said he, approaching -her more nearly.—“I may fear them,” -she replied, “but can you teach me to -fly them?” -</p> - -<p> -It was now late: very little else passed: -they returned home, where they were received -with considerable coldness. But -Lady Mandeville, perceiving the state of -suffering to which Calantha had reduced -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_198' href='#Page_198'>198</a></span> -herself, generously came forward to sooth -and to assist her. She appeared really -attached to her; and at this time more -even than at any former period, shewed -her sincere and disinterested friendship. -And yet she was the person Mrs. Seymour -distrusted; and even Glenarvon -spoke of her with asperity and disdain. -“Adelaide! though an envious world -may forsake thee, a grateful friend shall -stand firm by thee to the last.” Such -were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, -languidly throwing her rounded -arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, -and sighed to think of the misery she was -preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I -see how he loves thee,” she continued, -“I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.” -</p> - -<p> -That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady -Avondale. His letter repeated all he had -before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. -She had scarce received it, -scarce placed it in her bosom, when -Lady Margaret attacked her. “You -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_199' href='#Page_199'>199</a></span> -think,” she said, “that you have made a -conquest. Silly child, Lord Glenarvon -is merely playing upon your vanity.” -Lady Augusta whispered congratulations: -Sophia hoped she was pleased with her -morning walk; Sir Everard coldly asked -her if she had beheld his niece, and then, -with a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it -was vastly pleasant to depend upon certain -people’s promises. -</p> - -<p> -All this time Calantha felt not grieved: -Glenarvon had said he loved her: it was -enough: his attachment was worth all -else beside; and Lord Avondale’s increasing -neglect and coldness steeled her -heart against the crime of inconstancy. -</p> - -<p> -Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity -of speaking to her. “If you -accept my friendship,” he said frowning, -“I must be obeyed:—you will find me -a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. -If I once love, it is with fervor—with -madness. I must have no trifling, no -rivals. The being I worship must be -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_200' href='#Page_200'>200</a></span> -pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, -think not that it is to let others approach -her. No, Lady Avondale; not even what -appears most innocent to you, shall be -endured by me. I shall be jealous of -every look, word, thought. There must -be no shaking of hands, no wearing of -chains but such as I bestow, and you -must write all you think and feel without -reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if -you have the power; but if you remain, -you already know your fate.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt -the necessity. To-morrow, she said, -she would go. That to-morrow came, -and she had not strength. Glenarvon -wrote constantly: she replied with the -same openness. “Your letters chill me,” -he said, “call me your friend, your -lover: call me Glenarvon—Clarence if -you will. All these forms, these regulations -are odious amongst those who are -attached. Say that you love, beloved -Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_201' href='#Page_201'>201</a></span> -for I see it, and know it. There is no -greater crime in writing it than in feeling -it.” Calantha said it too soon—too soon -she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my -friend, my comforter:” such were the -terms she used. Shame to the pen, the -hand that dared to trace them. Days, and -days passed, and soon Glenarvon was all on -earth to her; and the love he felt or -feigned, the only hope and happiness of -her existence. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_202' href='#Page_202'>202</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXI. -</h2> - - -<p> -Lord Avondale now looked more and -more coldly on Calantha; but all others -courted and flattered her. The Princess -and many others had departed. Mrs. -Seymour alone appeared to watch her -with anxiety. In vain Calantha affected -the most thoughtless gaiety: remorse and -suspense alternately agitated her mind. -One evening she observed Lord Glenarvon -and her aunt, Mrs. Seymour, in earnest -discourse—she knew not then that -she herself was the subject. “She is -pure, she is innocent,” said Mrs. Seymour: -“her spirits wild and thoughtless, -may have led her into a thousand follies; -but worse, never—never.”—“Fierce -passion burns in her eye,” said Glenarvon, -scornfully: “the colour in her -cheeks varies.—I love her as well as you -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_203' href='#Page_203'>203</a></span> -can,” he continued, laughing; “but do -you think she does not love me a little in -return?”—“Oh! even in jest, do not -talk thus of Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour: -“you alarm me.”—“There is no -occasion,” replied Glenarvon: “calm -yourself. I only said, that were I to attempt -it I could succeed; she should be -ready to leave you, and Lord Avondale, -her dear husband and her babes, and her -retinue, and all else; and I could make -her follow me as St. Clara did: aye verily; -but, in truth, I will not.” Mrs. Seymour -was angry; she coloured; she was hurt. -“You could not,” she replied with warmth. -“O I know her well, and know you -could not. Whatever her faults, she is so -pure, so chaste even in thought.”—“She -loves me.”—“It is false” said Mrs. Seymour, -still more eagerly. “Even if she -had any foolish romantic liking to another -than her husband, Buchanan is the -favourite”—“Buchanan!” said Lord Glenarvon -with a sneer. “I will make her -heart ache for this,” after which he retired. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_204' href='#Page_204'>204</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Calantha knew not then one word of -what had passed. The morning after she -was informed by Mrs. Seymour that Lord -Glenarvon was gone. “Gone! where?” -she said rather in surprise, and agitated. -“I know not,” replied Mrs. Seymour, -coldly enough. “I conclude to Belfont: -his uncle Lord de Ruthven is arrived -there. But, indeed, I am glad he is gone:—you -have not conducted yourself well. -I, your aunt, have no doubt of you; but -others, who know you less, Calantha, -blame you more.” -</p> - -<p> -A letter was now delivered to Mrs. -Seymour: she opened it: it was from -Glenarvon; she was dreadfully agitated -upon reading it. It contained these words:—“As -you seem to doubt the confidence -and attachment with which your niece, -the Countess of Avondale, has honoured -me, I enclose you one of her own letters, -that you may see my vanity alone did not -authorise me in the conclusion that she -was attached to me. Her duplicity to me -can scarcely justify the means I take of -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_205' href='#Page_205'>205</a></span> -opening an aunt’s eyes; but the peculiar -circumstances of my situation will, I hope, -excuse it. -</p> - - -<p class="letter_head"> -“Your most obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="letter_head"> -“<span class="smcap">Glenarvon</span>.” -</p> - -<p> -This letter enclosed one of Lady -Avondale’s—one which, however, she -had not blushed to write. She read it with -terror when Mrs. Seymour placed it in -her hands. Cruel Glenarvon! could he -have the heart thus to betray me—to my -own aunt too. Oh! had that aunt been -less indulgent, less kind, what had been -my fate? -</p> - -<p> -“You are innocent yet, my child,” -said Mrs. Seymour, placing her arms -around her; “and the early conviction -of the meanness and wickedness of him -for whom you were preparing to sacrifice -so much, will render it easy to reclaim -yourself from your present errors, and -look with less confidence in future.”—“Never, -never, will I pardon him,” cried -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_206' href='#Page_206'>206</a></span> -Calantha, with supprest indignation. “I -will not hate; that were too flattering to -his vanity: I will not fly; that were a -proof that there was cause for it: but, -lowered to the dust as I ought to feel—humbled -to the earth (and whilst she -spoke, she looked and felt more proudly, -more vainly than ever), even I can despise -him. What are superior talents, if he -who possesses them can act thus? Oh! -I would rather die in torture, than ever -pardon this.” -</p> - -<p> -“Be less violent,” said Mrs. Seymour, -with a look of heart-broken tenderness -and affection: “that stubborn spirit must -be subdued.”—“I will revenge——” -“Be calm, Calantha: think what you -are saying: how unfeminine and how -puerile! Put off these frowns and this -idle rage, and look reasonably upon your -own conduct, not upon his.”—“Shall -you ever permit him to enter these doors -again?”—“Had I the power, assuredly -never.”—“Oh, let him return; I care -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_207' href='#Page_207'>207</a></span> -not; I can see him with the scorn, with -the indifference he deserves. Do not -look thus, my dearest aunt: dry your -tears: I am not worth one single tear -now; but I will act in future so as to -silence even these too just reproaches.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you repent, Calantha?”—“Do -not talk of repentance: I cannot feel it: -my sin is light compared with his.”—“Towards -your husband,”—“Oh! Lord -Avondale, he is happy enough: he cares -not.”—“Indeed he does, my child. I -tremble for you: every hour of your -life is a continual warfare and peril. One -danger no sooner ends than another -arises. Will you never consider the duties -of your situation, or the character -you have to form and to preserve?”—“Who -is more loved than I am? On -whom does even the world smile with -greater kindness? Beauties, wits, the virtuous—can -they cope with me? I am -every one’s friend, and every one loves, -even though they blame Calantha.” As -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_208' href='#Page_208'>208</a></span> -she said this, she smiled, and threw herself -on her aunt’s bosom. -</p> - -<p> -But all this Calantha did but to cheer -her aunt. Though not false, she dreaded -any one’s seeing the real state of her -mind: at this moment, she thought -Mrs. Seymour too gentle, and of too tender -a nature to bear the violence of her -headstrong character:—she knew it would -cause her misery were she to read her -heart’s secret, and she smiled therefore -and spoke with levity, whilst her soul -was in torture. But the very moment Mrs. -Seymour had left her, Calantha gave way -to the rage of fury, and the despondency -she felt. To have lost Glenarvon, was at -this time the real source of her regret;—to -speculate upon the cause of his sudden -cruelty and treachery her sole occupation. -</p> - -<p> -At the hour of dinner Mrs. Seymour -again entered her room; but without a -single reproach. She had been crying—her -eyes were swollen and red; but she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_209' href='#Page_209'>209</a></span> -affected scarcely to remember what had -passed, and urged Calantha to accompany -her to dinner, as her absence on the day -Lord Glenarvon was from home, might -appear strange. But Lady Avondale stubbornly -refused, and would not speak. She -even appeared sullen, that her aunt might -not see she was miserable. She even affected -more anger, more violence than she -felt against Glenarvon, that she might disguise -from herself and her aunt the pang -his loss had given her. She relented however -when she saw her aunt’s grief; and, -struggling with tears which never come -till passion is over, and which she thought -it weak to display, she dressed and appeared -at dinner. It was alone to please -Mrs. Seymour she had done so; and, -solely engrossed with the past, and utterly -indifferent to the mortifying remarks -her melancholy and silence occasioned, -Calantha hated those who had the unkindness -to censure and judge her, and looked -not upon herself with one sentiment of -condemnation. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_210' href='#Page_210'>210</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Towards evening Lord Avondale came -to her, and said kindly enough that she -looked ill. Then her heart smote her, -and affecting a pettish ill temper, which -she did not, could not feel, she replied -that she was well, and took up a book, -as if to read. May none ever experience -the torture Calantha felt, when, instead -of being offended, he gently pressed her -hand. She had rather he had struck a -dagger into her heart. -</p> - -<p> -Upon retiring to rest, Lady Avondale -sent for Zerbellini, and asked him respecting -Lord Glenarvon. The boy was -a constant favourite and playmate of his; -he carried notes and flowers, from each -to the other; and artless as he was, he -already felt delight in the eager interest -so much mystery and secresy required.—He -told Lady Avondale a thousand anecdotes -of Glenarvon; but he had told them -so often that they failed to please. He -then showed her the presents he had received -from those who formerly professed -to like her. “And did you ever shew -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_211' href='#Page_211'>211</a></span> -them to Lord Glenarvon?” said Lady -Avondale? The thought occurring that -this might have offended. “I did,” said -Zerbellini, with a shrewd smile.—“And -was he angry?”—“Oh, not in the least: -only the more kind; and he did question -me so and then the boy repeated a -thousand things that he had asked, which -shewed Calantha, too well, how eager he -was to ascertain, from other lips than -her’s, every minute detail of follies and -errors she had committed. There was -no need for this.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale felt indignant; for there -was not a thought of her heart she desired -to conceal from him. What she had done -wrong, she herself had confessed without -reserve; and to be thus cross-examined -and distrusted, deeply grieved her. She -thought, too, it lessened her regard; it -gave her a worse opinion of Glenarvon; -and this god—this idol, to whom she -had bowed so low, sunk at once from the -throne of glory upon which her imagination -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_212' href='#Page_212'>212</a></span> -had raised him. “If I pardon this,” -she cried, as she sent Zerbellini away, -and hastened to bed,—“if ever I waste a -tear, or sigh, or thought, on him again, -may I suffer what I deserve.—But the -thing is impossible.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Mandeville at this time was all -kindness to Lady Avondale. She was -going from the castle; and, as she parted, -she gave her this advice. “Never place -yourself in the power of any man: love -of this sort is apt to terminate in a wreck; -and whoever puts most to stake will be -the sufferer.” Lady Augusta also departed. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_213' href='#Page_213'>213</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXII. -</h2> - - -<p> -From that day, Lady Avondale grew -more calm; a degree of offended pride -supported her; and she resolved, cost -what it might, to continue firm. She -saw, that private communications were -taking place between Lady Margaret, her -Father, and even her Aunt and Glenarvon. -He had already contrived to interest -every individual in the castle in his affairs.—Lord -Avondale often spoke of -him with praise; Sir Richard, though -he said he was a comical personage, admired -him, and the female part of the -society were all eager and enthusiastic -about him. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale experienced every feeling -that can be imagined during this -short period; and received the half concealed -taunts of her acquaintance With -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_214' href='#Page_214'>214</a></span> -becoming fortitude—even their commiseration -for his having left her. She -heard their boasts too of what he had -written to them, without once repining; -but envy, rancour, malice, hatred, rage -and regret—all, more or less, arose and -subsided in her breast, till she heard one -morning, with a sort of trepidation, that -Lord Glenarvon was in the adjoining -room. Mrs. Seymour immediately came -to her. “Tell me truly,” she said, -“have you any objection to his dining -here?” “Quite the contrary”, said Calantha, -with indifference; and she waited -till she heard the sound of the horses -galloping from the outer court; she then -looked from the window, and her heart -told her too well that she was not yet entirely -recovered from her infatuation. -</p> - -<p> -At dinner they were to expect him; -and ’till dinner Lady Avondale could -think of nothing else. Mrs. Seymour -watched her with anxiety.—She affected -all things, to disguise what she felt, and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_215' href='#Page_215'>215</a></span> -she did it better than before, for habit -now rendered the effort less painful. -But Lady Margaret, laughing at her, -whispered maliciously in her ear, that -every thought and feeling, was more -strongly exhibited by her, with all her -attempts to hide them than by most -others, when they wished them to be -seen. “And I know,” she added, unkindly -enough, “you would give any -thing on earth to be friends with him -again.” “With who?” “See he appears,” -she said, “shall I name him?” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale had resolved to be firm. -There is a degree of dignity, which every -proud mind can assume. To have forgiven -so much treachery and cruelty, had -been contemptible. She felt it, and prepared -for the encounter. “He will do -every thing to regain you,” said Mrs. -Seymour, “but I have confidence in -your present feelings. Shew him, that -you are not what he imagines; and prove -to me, that I may still be proud of my -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_216' href='#Page_216'>216</a></span> -child.” Lady Avondale had taken Glenarvon’s -ring from her finger, she had -placed upon her neck a row of pearls -her husband had given her, upon the -eve of her marriage, and thus decorated, -she thought her heart had likewise returned -to its ancient allegiance. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale entered the dining-room. -Lord Glenarvon passed her at -the moment; he was in earnest conversation -with Lady Margaret, and slightly -bowed to her. She was surprised, she -had expected kindness and contrition. -She was, however, resolved to act up to -the very strictest bounds which decorum -prescribed. With some haughtiness, -some appearance at least of dignity, she -seated herself as far from him as he -could desire, and by addressing herself -calmly but entirely to others, she sought -to attain that look of unconcern, which -he had so readily assumed. -</p> - -<p> -Dinner was no sooner over than unable -any longer to conceal her vexation, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_217' href='#Page_217'>217</a></span> -Lady Avondale retired to her room to -compose herself. Upon returning, the -large society were employed either with -billiards, cards, or work—except a few -of the men, amongst whom she perceived -Lord Glenarvon. Had he refrained -from speaking to her, she could have -borne it,—had he even looked as grave, -as ill as usual; but an unusual flow of -spirits—a peculiar appearance of health, -had taken place of that customary languor, -to which he was at times subject. -</p> - -<p> -The evening and the supper passed -without his saying one word in apology -for his unkindness, or in the least attending -to her increasing irritation. -Lady Avondale affected unconcern as -well as she could, but it looked like -any thing else; and in the morning she -awoke but to suffer new humiliations. -She saw him smile as he named her in a -whisper to Lady Trelawney. She heard -him talk to others upon subjects he had -once spoken of only to herself. Immediately -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_218' href='#Page_218'>218</a></span> -upon this apparent rupture, new -hopes arose; new claims were considered; -and that competition for his favour, -which had ceased, began again. -Lady Trelawney laughed and talked -with him; at times turning her eye triumphantly -towards Calantha. Sophia confided -her opinions to his breast; affected -to praise him for his present conduct, -and the tear of agony, which fell from -Calantha’s eye, excited the indignation -it deserved. -</p> - -<p> -“I have sacrificed too much for one -who is heartless,” she said; “but, thank -God it is yet time for amendment.” -Alas! Lady Avondale knew not, as she -uttered these words, that there is no moment -in which it is so difficult to act with -becoming dignity and firmness, as that -in which we are piqued and trampled -upon by the object of our devotion. Glenarvon -well knew this, and smiled at the -pang he inflicted, as it proved his power, -and exhibited its effects to all. Lady -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_219' href='#Page_219'>219</a></span> -Avondale summoned to her aid even her -faults—the spirit, the pride of her character, -her very vanity; and rested her -hopes of firmness upon her contempt for -weakness, her abhorrence of vice. She -looked upon him, and saw his attempts -to wound, to humiliate, to grieve; and -she despised the man who could have recourse -to every petty art to torture one -for whom he had professed so much. If -he wished to expose her weakness to every -eye, too well he had succeeded. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_220' href='#Page_220'>220</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -Few women know how to conceal successful -love, but none can conceal their -doubt, resentment and jealousy. Men -can do both, and both without a struggle. -They feel less, and fear more. But this -was not the case with Lord Glenarvon, -nor did he wish to appear indifferent; -he only wished Calantha to feel his -power, and he delighted in the exhibition -of it. In vain she had formed the -best resolutions, they were now all rendered -useless. Lord Glenarvon had forestalled -her wise intention, no coldness—no -indifference she could assume, -had equalled that, which he either affected -or felt. -</p> - -<p> -Upon the bosom of Mrs. Seymour, -Calantha wept for her fault; it was infatuation, -she said, she was cured: the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_221' href='#Page_221'>221</a></span> -lesson, though somewhat harsh, had not -been fruitless. Again, she made every -promise, which affection and repentance -could suggest. She heard the name of -her husband pronounced, and longed to -throw herself before him, and commend -herself to his mercy. I do repent, indeed -I do, said Calantha, repeatedly in -the course of the day; and she thought -her penitence had been sincere. Humbled -now, and gentle, she thought only -of pleasing her aunt, Lord Avondale, -and her friends. She was desired to play -during the evening: to shew her ready -obedience she immediately obeyed. Lord -Glenarvon was in an adjoining room; -he entered when she began: springing -up, Lady Avondale left the harp; then, -seeing Lord Avondale surprised, she prepared -to tune it. -</p> - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon approached, and offered -her his hand, she refused it. “Will -you play?” he said—and she turned the -key with so much force that it broke the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_222' href='#Page_222'>222</a></span> -chords asunder. “You have wound -them too tight, and played upon them -too often,” he said. “Trifle not with -me thus—I cannot play now,” she replied. -“Leave me, I entreat you.” -“You know not what you have done,” -he replied. “All I ask—all I implore is, -that you will neither come near me, -nor speak to me more, for I am mad.” -“Women always recover from these paroxysms,” -said he, gaily. Calantha attempted -to play, and did so extremely ill, -after which she went to bed, happier, it -must be owned, for she had seen in Lord -Glenarvon’s manner that he was not indifferent, -and this rendered it more easy -for her to appear so. -</p> - -<p> -The next morning Lady Avondale -went out immediately after breakfast, -without speaking to Lord Glenarvon. He -twice attempted it, but with real anger, -she refused to hear him. It was late in -the day, when, having sought for her -before dinner, he at length found her -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_223' href='#Page_223'>223</a></span> -alone. His voice faultered, his eyes were -filled with tears. “Lady Avondale—Calantha,” -he said, approaching her, -“forgive me.—I ask it of you, and more, -if you require it, I will kneel—will sue -for it. You can make me what you -please—I am wholly in your power.” -“There is no need for this,” she said -coldly. -</p> - -<p> -“I will not rise till you forgive me. -If you knew all—if ... but can you -indeed believe me indifferent, or cold? -Look at me once: raise your eyes and behold -him, who lives but in you.” “All -this is useless, you have grieved me; but -I do not mean to reproach, the idle complainings -of a woman are ever useless.” -“To think that she suffers,” said Glenarvon, -“is enough. Look once—once -only, look upon me.” “Let us part in -peace,” she replied: “I have no complaint -to make, I have nothing to forgive,” -“raise your eyes, and look—Calantha -look once on me.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_224' href='#Page_224'>224</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -She turned to him, she saw that face -whose every feature was engraved deep -in her very heart—that smile of sweetness—that -calm serenity, she had not -power to speak—to think; and yet recovering -from this strange enchantment,—“How -could you betray me?” she -said. “I judge you not, but I can never -feel either interest, or friendship again.” -“Yet,” said Glenarvon gravely, “I -need both at this time, for I am miserable -and ill too, only I do not wish to excite -your compassion by these arts, and I -had rather die unforgiven, than use any -towards you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Wherefore did you betray me?” -“Can you ask? I was deeply wounded. -It is not enough for me that you love -me, all must, and shall know it. I will -make every sacrifice for you—run every -risk: but every risk and every sacrifice -must be shared.” “Whatever my feelings -may be,” she answered coldly, “you -shall never subdue me again. I may be -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_225' href='#Page_225'>225</a></span> -infatuated, but I will never be criminal—You -may torture me as you please, if you -have the power over me which you imagine, -but I can bear torture, and none -ever yet subdued me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” said Lord Glenarvon, -taking her hand firmly, and smiling -half scornfully, “you shall be my slave. -I will mould you as I like; teach you to -think but with my thoughts, to act but -with my feelings, you shall wait nor murmur—suffer, -nor dare complain—ask, -and be rejected—and all this, I will do, -and you know it, for your heart is already -mine.” “If I forgive you,” she cried, -“If you do not” he said, approaching -nearer. “I never will.” “And ’till -you do, though your whole family should -enter, I will kneel here—here, even at -your feet.” “You think to menace -me.” “I know my empire. Take off -those ornaments: replace what I have -given you: this too you shall wear,” -he said, throwing a chain around her, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_226' href='#Page_226'>226</a></span> -“Turn from me if you can: the heart that -I have won, you cannot reclaim, and -though the hand be thus denied me, this, -this is mine.” Saying this, he pressed her -lips to his, a strange feeling thrilled to -her heart as she attempted vainly to hate -him, or extricate herself from his embrace. -“I love you to madness,” he -said, and you distract me. “Trust yourself -entirely to me, it is the only means -of safety left. Yes, Calantha, I will do -for you, what no man ever did before. -If it destroy me, I will never lead you to -guilt, only rely upon me, be guided by -me.” “You ran the risk she said, of -our being separated for ever, of making -my aunt miserable. Of——.” “Nonsense -child, I never risk any thing, it was necessary -your aunt should know, and the -fear of losing you entirely will make -her readily consent to my seeing you -more than ever,” “Oh God! what -guilt. Think not that my attachment is -such as to bear it.” “It shall bear all -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_227' href='#Page_227'>227</a></span> -things,” said Glenarvon; “but if you -sacrifice what I desire, I will conquer -every wrong feeling for your sake? Our -friendship will then be innocent.” “Not -absolutely ... indeed I fear it; and -if——” “Ah! leave these gloomy -thoughts. If love should triumph—if -you feel half for me, what I feel from -my soul for you, then you shall accompany -me from hence. Avondale may easily -find another wife, but the world -contains for me but one Calantha.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale felt happy.—Shame on -the guilty heart that dared to feel so! -but alas, whilst Glenarvon thus addressed -her, she did feel most happy. In a moment, -the gloom that had overshadowed -her future hopes, was dispelled. She -saw her lover—her friend more than -ever united to her. He consented even -to respect what remaining virtue she had -left, and from his gentle, his courteous -words, it was not her wish to escape. -Yet still she resolved to leave him. Now, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_228' href='#Page_228'>228</a></span> -that peace was again restored, that -her irritated mind was calm, that her vanity -was flattered, and her pride satisfied, -now the admonitions of her aunt recurred, -and even while her heart beat fondest -for him, she pronounced her own doom, -and declared to him that she would tear -herself away from him for ever. “Perhaps -this must be,” he said, after a moment’s -pause; “but not yet, Calantha, -ah not yet.” As he spoke, he again -pressed her to his bosom, and his tears -fell over her. Oh! had he not thus -wept, Calantha had not loved him. -Struggling with his feelings for her, he -generously resolved to save, to spare -her. “Remember this,” he said, -“when they condemn me.—Remember, -Calantha, what I have done for you; -how I have respected you; and let not -their idle clamours prevail.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale was too happy to feel -vain. Glenarvon loved, as she never -had been loved before, every hour—every -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_229' href='#Page_229'>229</a></span> -moment of each passing day he -seemed alone intent, and occupied with -her; he wrote his minutest thoughts; -he counselled, he did not command. -He saw that power, ambition, was her -ruling passion, and by affecting to be -ruled, he completely mastered her—in -word, in look, in thought, he was devoted -to her. Other men think only of -themselves; Glenarvon conquered himself -a thousand times for her. What is -a momentary, a degrading passion to the -enjoyment she felt in his society? It -only lowers the object of its fancy, he -sought to raise her even in her own esteem. -“Forgive her, pity us,” he said, -addressing Mrs. Seymour, who saw in a -moment, with alarm, their reconciliation. -“Drive us not to despair, I will -respect her—will preserve her, if you -do not attempt to tear her from me, but -dread the violence of madness, if you -reduce us to the last rash step. Oh dread -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_230' href='#Page_230'>230</a></span> -the violence of a mad and incurable attachment.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha’s sole attention was now to -hide from those it might grieve, the -change which a few days had again -wrought. She appeared at dinner, she -seated herself opposite to Glenarvon. -There was no look of exultation in his -countenance, his eyes met her’s mournfully. -The diamond bracelets that adorned -her arms, had been given her by him; -the chain and locket which contained his -dark hair, had been placed around her -neck in token of his regard; the clasp that -fastened the band around her waist, was -composed of richest jewels brought by -him from distant countries; and the -heart that was thus girt round and encircled -with his gifts, beat only for him, -regardless of every other tie. “Oh my -child! my child!” said Mrs. Seymour, -gazing on her in agony. “I will never -reproach you, but do not break my -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_231' href='#Page_231'>231</a></span> -heart. You are ill in mind and health, -you know not what you say or do; God -forgive and pardon you, my unhappy Calantha!” -“Bear with me a few moments,” -said Lady Avondale much agitated: “I -will part from him; only give me time. -Fear me not: I will neither leave you nor -act wickedly, but if you seek too hastily -to sever us, oh my aunt, you may be the -means of driving two desperate minds -to misery and madness.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_232' href='#Page_232'>232</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIV. -</h2> - - -<p> -A few days previous to this quarrel and -reconciliation, Sir Everard St. Clare had -been thrown from his horse in consequence -of a tumult, in which having -beheld his niece and a dimness coming -over his eyes, he was no longer able to -support himself. The fall was said to -have injured his spine. He was confined -to his own room; but no one could -prevail upon him to lie upon his bed, or -admit Lady St. Clare, who sat continually -sobbing at his door, lamenting her conduct -and imploring his pardon. -</p> - -<p> -Whatever were the sufferings of Lady -Avondale’s mind at this time, she yet resolved -to visit this afflicted family, as she -had a real regard for the doctor in spite -of his singularities. She was preparing -therefore the ensuing day, to call upon -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_233' href='#Page_233'>233</a></span> -him, when a servant informed her that -a young gentleman below desired to -speak with her. Her heart beat upon -hearing the name Clarence of Costolly: -but upon entering the room she soon discovered, -in the personage before her, -the doctor’s unhappy niece, Elinor, upon -whom every counsel was lost—every -menace and punishment powerless. -</p> - -<p> -Elinor had entered the castle with a -look of bold defiance; yet her lips trembled, -as she twice vainly attempted to address -Lady Avondale, who moved forward -to enquire the cause of her visit. -“I am come,” said Miss St. Clare with -haughty insolence, “to ask a favour of -you—tell me shall it be granted? my uncle -is ill: he has sent to see me. This -may be a mere feint to draw me into his -power. I will trust myself with no one -but you:—if you will engage for me, -that I shall not be detained, I will go to -him; if not, come what will, I will never -more set foot into his house.” “Your -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_234' href='#Page_234'>234</a></span> -having listened to the prayers of Sir Everard,” -answered Lady Avondale eagerly, -“is a proof to me that you have a kind -heart, and you are so young, that I feel -sure, oh most sure, that you will return -to a more virtuous course.” “To virtue!” -said Elinor with a smile of scorn “never—never.” -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke, a letter dropped from -her bosom. Lady Avondale saw from -the superscription—the name of Glenarvon. -Her heart sickened at the sight; -she tried to conceal her emotion; but she -had not yet learned sufficiently how to -dissemble. Elinor, with ill suppressed -rage, watched Lady Avondale: she could -scarcely stand the fury of her glance, -when in a voice, nearly choked with passion, -“take it,” she said, throwing the -letter to her. “Yes, you shall give it him—give -it to your lover. I would have -hated you, I would have injured you; -but I cannot. No wonder he admires -you: I could myself; but I am miserable.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_235' href='#Page_235'>235</a></span> -Lady Avondale raised her eyes; -every fierce expression had left Elinor’s -countenance: with a subdued, and -mournful air, she turned aside as if ashamed -of the weakness she had shewn; -then, taking a little miniature and chain -from her neck, “he sent for this too,” -she cried. “He sent for all he gave -me, to offer to his new idol. Take it -then, lady; and tell him I obeyed his -last command.” -</p> - -<p> -A tear dimmed for a moment her eye; -recovering herself, “he has not power,” -she cried, “to break a heart like mine. -’Tis such as you, may die for love—I have -yet many years to live.” Lady Avondale -sprang forward to return the picture—the -letter; but St. Clare, with a precipitancy -she was not prepared for, had -left her; Lady Avondale arrived at the -door of the Castle only in time to see -her gallop off. -</p> - -<p> -While she was yet holding the letter -and picture in her hand, Glenarvon was -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_236' href='#Page_236'>236</a></span> -announced. He looked at both without -exhibiting any symptom of surprise, and -having read the letter, shewed it to Calantha. -It greatly shocked her. “I am -so used,” said he smiling, “to these -scenes, that they have lost all power with -me.” “Unhappy Elinor,” said Lady -Avondale. “In good truth,” said Glenarvon -“you may spare your pity, Calantha: the -lady has spirit enough: it is her lover -who ought to claim compassion.” “Now -do not frown,” said he, “or reproach, -or torment me about her. I know it was -wrong first to take her with me—it was -wrong to see her since; but never more, -you may rely upon it, shall I transgress; -and if you knew all, you would not -blame me. She absolutely forced herself -upon me. She sat at my door, and -wept when I urged her to return home. -What could I do: I might have resisted.—Calantha, -when passion is burning in -every vein—when opportunity is kind—and -when those who from the modesty -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_237' href='#Page_237'>237</a></span> -of their sex ought to stand above us and -force us from them, forget their dignity -and sue and follow us, it is not in man’s -nature to resist. Is it in woman’s?” he -continued smiling archly. -</p> - -<p> -“I blame you not,” she replied; “but -I pity her. Yet wherefore not shew her -some little kindness!” “A look, a word -would bring her back to me. She misrepresents -every thing: she deceives -herself.” “Love is ever apt to do so.” -“Oh! my adored Calantha, look not -thus on me. You are not like this -wretched girl: there is nothing feminine, -or soft, or attractive in her; in you -there is every charm.” “You loved -her once,” said Calantha. “It was passion, -phrenzy, it was not love—not what -I feel for my Calantha.” “As you regard -me, be kind to her.” “I was very -kind once, was I not?” “Oh not in that -manner—not so.” “How then my soul? -explain yourself; you shall instruct me.” -“Counsel her to repent.” “From the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_238' href='#Page_238'>238</a></span> -lips that first taught her to err, how will -such counsel prevail?” “Why take your -picture from her?” “To give it to the only -friend I have left.” “I shall send it her -again.” “She will only laugh at you.” -“I had rather be the cause of her laughter, -than of her tears.” “Fear not: she is -not prone to weeping; but perhaps,” he -continued in a tone of pique, “you -would wish to give <i>me</i> back also, as well -as the portrait.” “Oh never—never.” -This was Lady Avondale’s answer; and -Lord Glenarvon was satisfied. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_239' href='#Page_239'>239</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXV. -</h2> - - -<p> -Lady Avondale sent the portrait to -Miss St. Clare, and vainly endeavoured -to restore her to her uncle’s protection. -She again spoke of her to Glenarvon. -</p> - -<p> -“Cannot I yet save her?” she said; -“Cannot I take her home, and sooth -her mind, and bring her back to virtue -and to peace?” “Never more,” he replied: -“it is past: her heart is perverted.” -“Is there no recall from such perversion?” -“None, none, my friend.” His -countenance, whilst he spoke, assumed -much of bitterness. “Oh there is no recall -from guilty love. The very nature -of it precludes amendment, as these -beautiful, these emphatic lines express, -written by the Scottish bard, who had -felt their truth:”— -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_240' href='#Page_240'>240</a></span> -</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"> -<p>“The sacred lore o’weel-plac’d love,</p> -<p class="i1">Luxuriantly indulge it;</p> -<p>But never tempt th’ illicit rove,</p> -<p class="i1">Tho’ naething should divulge it:</p> -<p>I wave the quantum o’ the sin,</p> -<p class="i1">The hazard of concealing;</p> -<p>But och! it hardens a’ within,</p> -<p class="i1">And petrifies the feeling.”</p> -</div></div> - -<p> -“Is it indeed so?” “Alas! then, what -will become of me?” “Calantha, your -destiny is fixed,” he cried, suddenly starting -as if from deep thought; “there is -a gulph before you, into which you -are preparing to plunge. I would have -saved you—I tried; but cannot. You -know not how to save yourself. Do you -think a momentary pause, a trifling turn, -will prevent the fall? Will you now fly -me? now that you are bound to me, and -the fearful forfeiture is paid? Oh turn -not thus away:—look back at the journey -you have taken from innocence and -peace: and fear to tread the up-hill path -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_241' href='#Page_241'>241</a></span> -of repentance and reformation alone. -Remember when a word or look were -regarded by you as a crime—how you -shuddered at the bare idea of guilt. Now -you can hear its language with interest: it -has lost its horror: Ah soon it shall be the -only language your heart will like. Shrink -not, start not, Calantha: the road you -pursue is that which I have followed. See -and acknowledge then, the power I hold -over your heart; and yield to what is already -destined. You imagine, when I -speak of guilt, that you can shrink from -me, that you can hate me; but you have -lost the power, and let me add, the right: -you are become a sharer in that iniquity—you -must be a sharer in my fate. The -actual commission of crime still excites -horror; but do you remember when you -shuddered at every approach to it? And -cannot he who has triumphed thus far -gain all, think you, if it were his desire? -Yes, you are mine—a being wholly relying -upon a wish, a breath, which I may -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_242' href='#Page_242'>242</a></span> -chuse to kindle. Avondale’s peace—your -honour, are in my hands. If I resign you, -my heart will break in the struggle; but -if I give way....” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh then,” she cried, “then are we -ruined for ever and for ever. Do not, -even were I to consent, O! do not lead me -to wrong. What shall ever remunerate -us for the loss of self-approbation?” He -smiled bitterly. “It is,” he said, “a -possession, I never yet cared greatly to retain.” -“And is self-approbation the greatest -of all earthly enjoyments? Is man -so independent, so solitary a being, that -the consciousness of right will suffice to -him, when all around brand him with -iniquity, and suspect him of guilt?” -He paused, and laughed. “Let us be -that which we are thought,” he cried, -in a more animated tone. “The worst -is thought; and that worst we will -become. Let us live on earth but for -each other: another country will hide us -from the censures of the prejudiced; and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_243' href='#Page_243'>243</a></span> -our very dependence upon each other, -will endear us more and more.” Calantha -withdrew her hand—she looked upon -him with fear; but she loved, and she -forgot her alarm. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_244' href='#Page_244'>244</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVI. -</h2> - - -<p> -Strange as it may appear, a husband, -unless his eyes are opened by the confession -of his guilty partner, is the last to -believe in her misconduct; and when the -world has justly stamped disgrace upon -her name, he shares in his wife’s dishonour, -for he is supposed by all to know, -and to connive at her crime. But though -this be a painful truth, experience every -day confirms, that a noble and confiding -husband is too often, and too easily deceived. -In the marriage state there is -little love, and much habitual confidence. -We see neglect and severity on the part -of the man; and all the petty arts and -cunning wiles on the side of his more -frail and cowardly partner. Indifference -first occasions this blindness; infatuation -increases it; and in proportion as all interest -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_245' href='#Page_245'>245</a></span> -is lost for the object who so deceives, -such husband lives the dupe of -the wife, who despises him for his blindness -and dies in the same happy illusion, -in which he has so long passed -away his life. He even presses to his -heart, as he leaves them his possessions, -the children of some deceitful friend, -who, under the plea of amity to himself, -has fed upon his fortunes, and seduced -the affections of his wife. -</p> - -<p> -Disgusting as such picture may be -thought, is it not, unhappily for us, daily -exhibited to the public view? and shall -they who tolerate and see it, and smile -in scorn at its continued and increasing -success, affect to start with horror from -Calantha’s tale? or to discredit that -Avondale was yet ignorant of her guilt? -He was ofttimes engaged with the duties -of his profession—nor thought that -whilst risking his life in the service of -his country, the woman he loved and confided -in, had betrayed him. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_246' href='#Page_246'>246</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -His cheeks were red with the hue of -health; his eyes shone bright with sparkling -intelligence; he laughed the loud -heart’s laugh at every merry jest, and -slept with unbroken slumbers, the sleep -of the righteous and the just. Calantha -looked upon him as we look afar off upon -some distant scene where we once dwelt, -and from which we have long departed. -It awakens in our memory former pains -and pleasures; but we turn from it with -bitterness; for the sight is distressing -to us. -</p> - -<p> -Harry Mowbray loved his father and -followed him; the baby Anabel held out -her arms to him when he passed; but -Calantha assumed a stern coldness in -his presence, and replied to his few enquiries -with all the apparent insensibility -of a proud and offended mind: yet such is -the imperfection of human nature, that it -is possible Lord Avondale cherished her -the more for her very faults. Certain -it is, that he felt proud of her, and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_247' href='#Page_247'>247</a></span> -every casual praise which, even from the -lips of strangers, was bestowed on Calantha, -gave him more delight than any profession, -however flattering, that could have -been made to himself. To see her blest -was his sole desire; and when he observed -the change in her manner and spirits, -it grieved, it tortured him:—he -sought, but in vain, to remove it. At -length business of importance called him -from her. “Write,” he said, at parting, -“write, as you once used. My presence has -given but little satisfaction to you; I dare -not hope my absence will create pain.” -“Farewell,” said Lady Avondale, with assumed -coldness. “There are false hearts -in this world, and crimes are enacted, -Henry, at home ofttimes, as well as -abroad. Confide in no one. Believe not -what your own eyes perceive. Life is but -as the shadow of a dream. All here is -illusion. We know not whom we love.” -</p> - -<p> -How happy some may imagine—how -happy Calantha must have felt now that -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_248' href='#Page_248'>248</a></span> -Lord Avondale was gone. Far from it. -She for the first time felt remorse. His -departure filled her with gloom:—it was -as if her last hope of safety were cut off; -as if her good angel had for ever abandoned -her; and with a reserve and prudence, -which in his presence, she had -failed to assume, she now turned with -momentary horror from the near approach -of vice. The thought of leaving her -home and Lord Avondale, had not indeed -ever seriously occurred, although she constantly -listened to the proposal of doing -so, and acted so as to render such a step -necessary. She had seen Lord Avondale -satisfied, and whilst Lord Glenarvon was -near her, no remorse obtruded—no fear -occurred—she formed no view for the -future. To die with him, or to live but -for that moment of time, which seemed -to concentrate every possible degree of -happiness, this was the only desire of -which she had felt capable. But now, -she shuddered—she paused:—the baseness -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_249' href='#Page_249'>249</a></span> -of betraying a noble, confiding husband, -struck her mind, and filled it with -alarm; but such alarm appeared only to -accelerate her doom. “If I can resist -and remain without deeper guilt, I will -continue here,” she cried; “and if I -fail in the struggle, I will fly with -Glenarvon.”—This false reasoning consoled -her. A calm, more dangerous -than the preceding agitation, followed -this resolve. -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon had changed entirely in his -manner, in his character; all art, all -attempt at wounding or tormenting was -passed. He seemed himself the sufferer, -and Calantha, the being upon whose attachment -he relied, he was as fearful of -vexing her, as she was of losing him. -On earth he appeared to have no thought -but her; and when again and again he -repeated, “I never loved as I do now,—oh -never.” It may be doubted whether -that heart exists which could have disbelieved -him. Others who affect only, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_250' href='#Page_250'>250</a></span> -are ever thoughtful of themselves; and -some plan, some wary and prudential -contrivance frequently appears, even in -the very height of their passion. The -enjoyment of the moment alone, and not -the future continuance of attachment, -employs their hopes. But Glenarvon -seemed more anxious to win every affection -of her heart; to fix every hope of -her soul upon himself; to study every -feeling as it arose, sift every motive, and -secure his empire upon all that was most -durable, than to win her in the usual -acceptation of the word. And even -though jealous that she should be ready -to sacrifice every principle of honour -and virtue, should he demand it, he had -a pride in saving her from that guilt into -which she was now voluntarily preparing -to plunge. -</p> - -<p> -Day by day, the thought of leaving all -for him appeared more necessary and -certain.—She no longer shuddered at -the mention of it. She heard him describe -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_251' href='#Page_251'>251</a></span> -their future life—the countries -they should visit; and it even pleased -her to see that he was sincere in his -intentions. No disguise was now required: -he called not the fire that burnt -in his heart by the name of friendship -and of interest: “it is love,” he cried, -“—most guilty—most unconquerable. -Hear it, mark it, and yet remain without -alarm. Ah! think not that to share -it alone is required: your soul must -exult, that it has renounced every hope -beyond; and Glenarvon’s love must -entirely fill your affections. Nay more, -you shall sue for the sacrifice which is -demanded of others. Yourself shall -wish it; for I will never wrest from you -that which, unless freely given, is little -worth. Perhaps, even when you desire -to be mine, I, even I shall spare -you, till maddening with the fierce -fires that devour us, you abandon all -for me.” -</p> - -<p> -He now opened to her the dark recesses -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_252' href='#Page_252'>252</a></span> -of his heart; deeds of guilt concealed -from other eyes, he now dwelt -upon to Calantha with horrid pleasure. -“Shrink not, start not,” he exclaimed, -when she trembled at each new confession. -“Proud, even of my crimes, shalt -thou become, poor victim of thy mad -infatuation; this is the man for whom -thou leavest Avondale! Mark me Calantha,—view -me as I am, nor say hereafter -that Glenarvon could deceive.” -“And do you never feel remorse?” she -said.—“Never.” “Do you believe?—” -His countenance for one moment altered. -“I know not,” he said, and he was grave. -“Oh must I become as hard as wicked” -she said, bursting into tears. He pressed -her mournfully to his bosom. “Weep,” -he replied, “I like to see your tears; -they are the last tears of expiring -virtue. Henceforward you will shed -no more.” -</p> - -<p> -Those who have given way to the violence -of any uncontrouled passion, know -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_253' href='#Page_253'>253</a></span> -that during its influence all other considerations -vanish. It is of little use to -upbraid or admonish the victim who -pursues his course: the fires that goad -him on to his ruin, prevent his return. -A kind word, an endearing smile, may -excite one contrite tear; but he never -pauses to reflect, or turns his eyes -from the object of his pursuit. In vain -the cold looks of an offended world, -the heavy censures, and the pointed, -bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. -Misfortunes, poverty, pain, even -to the rack, are nothing if he obtain -his view. It is a madness that falls upon -the brain and heart. All is at stake for -that one throw; and he who dares all, -is desperate, and cannot fear. It was -phrenzy, not love, that raged in Calantha’s -bosom. -</p> - -<p> -To the prayers of a heart-broken parent, -Lady Avondale opposed the agonizing -threats of a distempered mind. -“I will leave you all, if you take him -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_254' href='#Page_254'>254</a></span> -from me. On earth there is nothing left -me but Glenarvon.—Oh name not virtue -and religion to me.—What are its hopes, -its promises, if I lose him.” The fever -of her mind was such, that she could not -for one hour rest: he saw the dreadful -power he had gained, and he lost no -opportunity of encreasing it. Ah did -he share it? In language the sweetest, -and the most persuasive, he worked upon -her passions, till he inflamed them beyond -endurance. -</p> - -<p> -“This, this is sin,” he cried, as he -held her to his bosom, and breathed vows -of ardent, burning love. “This is what -moralists rail at, and account degrading. -Now tell them, Calantha, thou who didst -affect to be so pure—so chaste, whether -the human heart can resist it? Religion -bids thee fly me,” he cried: “every hope -of heaven and hereafter warns thee from -my bosom. Glenarvon is the hell thou -art to shun:—this is the hour of trial. -Christians must resist. Calantha arise, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_255' href='#Page_255'>255</a></span> -and fly me; leave me alone, as before I -found thee. Desert me, and thy father -and relations shall bless thee for the sacrifice: -and thy God, who redeemed thee, -shall mark thee for his own.” With -bitter taunts he smiled as he thus spoke: -then clasping her nearer to his heart, -“Tell both priests and parents,” he said -exultingly, “that one kiss from the lips -of those we love, is dearer than every -future hope.” -</p> - -<p> -All day,—every hour in the day,—every -instant of passing time Glenarvon -thought but of Calantha. It was not -love, it was distraction. When near him, -she felt ecstacy; but if separated, though -but for one moment, she was sullen and -desponding. At night she seldom slept; -a burning fever quickened every pulse: -the heart beat as if with approaching -dissolution,—delirium fell upon her -brain. No longer innocent, her fancy -painted but visions of love; and to be -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_256' href='#Page_256'>256</a></span> -his alone, was all she now wished for, -or desired on earth. He felt, he saw, -that the peace of her mind, her life itself -were gone for ever, and he rejoiced in -the thought. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_257' href='#Page_257'>257</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVII. -</h2> - - -<p> -One night, as she retired to her room, -Gondimar met her in the passage, leading -from Mrs. Seymour’s apartment. -“Lost woman,” he cried, fiercely seizing -her, “you know not what you love;—look -to his hand, there is blood on it!...” -That night was a horrid night to Calantha; -she slept, and the dream that -oppressed her, left her feeble and disordered. -The ensuing day she walked by -the shores of the sea: she bared her forehead -to the balmy gales. She looked -upon every cheerful countenance in hopes -of imbibing happiness from the smile -that brightened theirs, but it was vain. -</p> - -<p> -Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. -They walked together to the mountains; -they conversed; and half in jest she -asked him for his hand,—“not that hand,” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_258' href='#Page_258'>258</a></span> -she said, “give me your right hand: I -wish to look upon it.” “I believe I -must refuse you, your manner is so -strange,” he replied. “Do if you please, -for the reason I wish to see it is more so. -It was a dream, a horrid dream, which -made me ill last night. The effect, -perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” -“I should like to hear it. Are you superstitious?” -“No; but there are -visions unlike all others, that impress us -deeply, and this was one. I almost fear -to tell it you.” “I too have dreamt,” said -he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought -only to my fancy, the dearest wishes of -my heart. Oh would to God that I -might live to realize a dream like that, -which blest me yesternight. Shall I -repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad -for it; but mine, if indeed you wish it, -you may hear.” -</p> - -<p> -“I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat -it) that I was in some far distant country. -I was standing by the sea, and the fresh -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_259' href='#Page_259'>259</a></span> -air blew gently upon me, even as it does -now; but ... it was night. There -was a dirge sung as in monasteries, and -friars passed to and fro, in long procession -before me. Their torches now and -then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt -was mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all -this was confused.—That which was -more striking, I remember better. A -monk in black stood before me; and -whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to -a height unusual and monstrous: he -seemed to possess some authority over -me, and he questioned me as to my -conduct and affections. I tried to disguise -from him many thoughts which -disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried -manner of others; I named you not. He -shook his head; and then looking fiercely -at me, bade me beware of Clarence de -Ruthven (for so he called you). I never -can forget his voice. All others you -may see, you may converse with; but, -Calantha, beware,” he said, “of Clarence -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_260' href='#Page_260'>260</a></span> -de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” -“A what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. -“I dare not continue.” -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon, however, insisted upon -hearing this. “I never, never can tell,” -said Calantha, “for you look so much -offended—so serious.—After all, what -nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” -“That which seems to have made no -little impression upon Lady Avondale’s -mind, cannot fail of awakening some -interest in mine. It is a very strange -vision,” continued he, fixing his eyes on -her. “These idle phantasies are but -repetitions of the secret workings of the -mind. Your own suspicions have coloured -this. Go on, let me hear all.” -“Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I -seemed in my dream to doubt his words. -Only this I remember:—he bade me -ask you for your hand—your right hand; -he said there was a stain of blood on it; -and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he -will not give it you; there is a mark -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_261' href='#Page_261'>261</a></span> -upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I -awoke.” -</p> - -<p> -“To think me every thing however -bad, that your monk may chuse to make -me out. Well foolish dreamer, look at -my hand: say, is there a mark on it?” -The laugh which accompanied this question -was forced. Calantha started back, -as she again observed that almost demoniac -smile. His eyes glared upon her -with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks -became pale; and over his forehead, an -air of deep distress struggled with the -violence of passion, till all again was -calm, cold, and solemn, as before. She -was surprised at his manner; for although -he made light of it, he was certainly displeased, -and much moved by this foolish -occurrence. -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon continued absent and irritable -during the whole of the walk; nor -ceased enquiring oftentimes that day, -respecting what she had said. It appeared -to her less extraordinary, when she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_262' href='#Page_262'>262</a></span> -remembered the circumstances concerning -Linden; yet he had so often acknowledged -that event to her,—so often spoke -of him with pity and regret, that had he -merely thought she alluded to such -transaction, he had been proud of the -effort he had made to save him, and of -the blood he had shed upon that account. -Whatever then occasioned this strange -perturbation;—however far imagination -might wander, even though it pictured -crimes unutterable,—under Glenarvon’s -form all might be forgiven. Passion, -perhaps, had misled its victim, and who -can condemn another when maddening -under its trying influence! It was not -for Calantha to judge him. It was her -misfortune to feel every thing with such -acute and morbid sensibility, that what -in others had occasioned a mere moment -of irritation, shook every fibre around -her heart. The death of a bird, if it had -once been dear, made her miserable; and -the slightest insult, as she termed it, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_263' href='#Page_263'>263</a></span> -rendered her furious. Severity but caused -a desperate resistance, and kindness alone -softened or subdued her. Glenarvon -played upon every passion to the utmost; -and when he beheld her, lost beyond all -recall, he seemed to love her most. -</p> - -<p> -How vain were it to attempt to paint -the struggles, the pangs, the doubts, the -fears, the endless unceasing irritation of a -mind disordered by guilty love. Remorse -had but little part in the disease; passion -absorbed every feeling, every hope; and -to retain Glenarvon was there any thing -his weak and erring victim had refused? -Alas! the hour came, when even to leave -all and follow him appeared incumbent. -The very ruin such conduct must occasion -to Calantha, engaged her more eagerly to -agree to the proposal. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Margaret was now at times engaged -with him in secret discourses, which -occasioned much apparent dissention between -them; but Calantha was not the -subject. “He has the heart of a fiend,” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_264' href='#Page_264'>264</a></span> -Lady Margaret would often exclaim, as -she left him; and Calantha could perceive -that, with all her power of dissimulation, -she was more moved more irritated -by him, than she ever had been -before by any other. He also spoke of -Lady Margaret with bitterness, and the -asperity between them grew to such a -height, that Calantha apprehended the -most fatal effects from it. Still, however, -the Duke wished to conciliate a dangerous -and malignant foe; and though -his visits to the castle were short, compared -with what they had been, they were as -frequent as ever. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_265' href='#Page_265'>265</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -It happened one morning that Calantha, -having been walking with Lord Glenarvon, -upon her return entered the -library rather unexpectedly, and perceived -Zerbellini with the Count Gondimar -and Lady Margaret. They all seemed -in some confusion at her entrance. She -was however too deeply occupied with -other thoughts to enquire into their -strange embarrassment; and looking at -Glenarvon, she watched the varying expression -of his countenance with anxious -solicitude. At dinner that day he seated -himself near her. Mrs. Seymour’s eyes -were filled with tears. “It is too late,” -he said, in a low whisper: “be firm: it -makes me mad to see the arts that are -used to separate us. Speak only to me—think -only of me. What avail their frowns, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_266' href='#Page_266'>266</a></span> -their reproaches? I am dearer, am I not -than all?” -</p> - -<p> -Dinner being over, Calantha avoided -her aunt’s presence. She perceived it, -and approaching her, “My child,” she -said, “do not fly me. My unhappy Calantha, -you will break my heart, if you -act thus.” At that moment Lady Margaret -joined them: “Ask Calantha,” she -said, “now ask her about the pearl necklace.” -</p> - -<p> -The pearl necklace in question was -one which Lord Avondale had given Calantha -on the eve of her marriage. She -was now accused of having given it to -Lord Glenarvon. It is true that she had -placed in his hands all the jewels of -which she was mistress, that his presents -might not exceed in value such as she -had power to offer; they had been too -magnificent otherwise for her to receive; -and though only dear because they were -his gifts, yet to have taken them without -return had been more pain than pleasure; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_267' href='#Page_267'>267</a></span> -one smile of his were worth them all—one -approving look, far dearer. This gift -of Lord Avondale’s, however, she had considered -as sacred, and neither Lord Glenarvon’s -love, nor her own perversion, -had led her to touch it. She had received -it when innocent and true; it was pain to -her even to look upon it now; and when -she heard the accusation made against -her, she denied it with considerable -warmth; for guilt but irritates the -mind, and renders the perpetrator impatient -of accusation. “This indignation -is rather ill-timed however,” said -Lady Margaret, sarcastically: “there are -things more sacred than pearls thrown -away; and if the necklace has not been -given, it is, I believe, the only thing, that -has been retained.” -</p> - -<p> -Such unpleasant conversation was now -interrupted by Sophia, who entered the -room.—“The necklace is found,” she -said; “and who do you think had -taken it?” “I care not,” said Calantha -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_268' href='#Page_268'>268</a></span> -proud and offended at their former suspicions. -“Zerbellini!” “Oh impossible!” -“Some of Lady Margaret’s servants -first suggested the possibility,” said -Sophia. “His desk and wardrobe were -consequently examined, and scarce giving -credit to the testimony of their sight, -the lost prize was discovered in his silken -vest.” Calantha indignantly resisted the -general belief that the boy was the real -culprit. Every one left the room, and -eagerly enquired into the whole affair. -“If ocular proof is necessary to convince -you,” said Lady Margaret, returning -to Calantha and leading her from the -billiard room, accompanied by many -others, “you shall now have it; and see,” -she cried, pausing as she entered the -boy’s apartment, “how soundly criminals -can sleep!” “Aye, and how tranquil -and innocent they can appear,” continued -Gondimar smiling as he stood by -the side of the page’s bed. Glenarvon’s -countenance, rendered more terrible by -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_269' href='#Page_269'>269</a></span> -the glimmering of the lamp, changed at -these words. -</p> - -<p> -There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, -lay the youthful Zerbellini, his cheeks -blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing -in clusters about his face, his arms thrown -over his head with infantine and playful -grace. “If he be guilty,” said Calantha, -looking earnestly at him, “Great God, -how much one may be deceived!” -“How much one may be deceived!” -said the Duke turning back and glancing -his eye on the trembling form of his -daughter. The necklace was produced: -but a look of doubt was still seen on every -countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly -approaching Gondimar, asked him whether -some villain might not have placed -it there, to screen himself and to ruin -the boy? “I should be loath,” replied -the Italian, with an affectation of humility, -“very loath to imagine that such a -wretch could exist.” A glance of bitter -scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_270' href='#Page_270'>270</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -“We can see the boy, alone, in the -morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper -to Calantha; “there is more in this than -we know of. Be calm; fear not, and to-morrow, -we can with caution discover -all.” “Do not talk of to-morrow,” replied -Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment -is too long to bear injustice. I will -plead with my father.” So saying, she -followed him, urging him to hear her. -“Consider the youth of the child,” she -said, “even if guilty, remember he is -but young.” “His youth but aggravates -the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing -her. “When the young can -act basely, it shews that the heart’s core -is black. Plead not for him: look to -yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and -left her. The time was past when a -prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed -in vain; and struggling with a thousand -strong emotions, she fled to her own -room, and gave vent to the contending -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_271' href='#Page_271'>271</a></span> -passions, by which she was so greatly -agitated. -</p> - -<p> -That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not -at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt was now -considered as certain. The Duke himself -awakening the child, asked him if he -had taken the necklace. He coloured -extremely; hid his face, and then acknowledged -the offence. He was questioned -respecting his motive; but he -evaded, and would not answer. His doom -was fixed. “I will take him from hence,” -said Gondimar. “He must not remain -here a single hour; but no severity shall -be shewn to so youthful an offender.” -</p> - -<p> -It was at that dark still hour of the -night, when spirits that are troubled -wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, -that Lady Margaret and Count Gondimar, -entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if -he were prepared. “For what?” exclaimed -the boy, clasping his hands together. -“<i>Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi!</i> -Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_272' href='#Page_272'>272</a></span> -Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will -no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are -these your promises—your kindnesses?” -“Help me to bear him away,” said -Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If -Glenarvon should hear us? and force -was used to bear the struggling boy from -the Castle?” -</p> - -<p> -In the morning Calantha was informed, -by Lady Margaret, of the whole transaction. -She said, however, that on account -of his youth, no other notice would be -taken of his fault, than that of his being -immediately sent back to his parents at -Florence. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha was unquiet and restless the -whole of the day. “The absence of your -page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, -as she passed her, “seems to have caused -you some little uneasiness. Do you expect -to find him in any of these rooms? -Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, -or the Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel -been examined thoroughly?” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_273' href='#Page_273'>273</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -A loud noise and murmur interrupted -her. The entrance of the Count Gondimar, -pale and trembling, supported by -Lord Glenarvon and a servant, gave a -general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, -fiercely glancing his eyes around, -“attacked our carriage, and forced the -child from my grasp.” “Where?—how?” -“About twenty miles hence,” -said the Italian. “Curse on the darkness, -which prevented my defending myself -as I ought.” “Those honorable -wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently -that the Count wrongs himself.” -“Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do -me a favour. Fly to the stables; view -well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear -any appearance of recent service: I strongly -suspect him: and but for his presence -at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, -I could have staked my soul it -was by his arm I received these wounds.” -“The horse,” said Lord Trelawny, -when he returned, “is sleek and far different -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_274' href='#Page_274'>274</a></span> -from the reeking steeds that followed -with your carriage.” Glenarvon -smiled scornfully on the officious Lord: -then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, -“I read your suspicions,” said he -in a low voice, as he passed: “they are -just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou -art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,” replied -Gondimar, grinding his teeth. -“By the murdered....” “Say no -more,” said Glenarvon, violently agitated, -while every trembling nerve attested -the agony he endured. “For God’s -sake be silent. I will meet you at St. -Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the -whole of my conduct, and you will not -find in it aught to give you just offence.” -“The ground upon which you stand -has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, -with a malicious smile: “look at your -hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and -exhausted, scarce appeared to support -himself any longer; but suddenly collecting -all his forces together, with a -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_275' href='#Page_275'>275</a></span> -struggle, which nature seemed scarcely -equal to endure, he sprung upon the -Italian, and asked him fiercely the meaning -of his words. Gondimar now, in his -turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney interposed; -and peace was apparently restored. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_276' href='#Page_276'>276</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIX. -</h2> - - -<p> -The scene of the morning had caused considerable -speculation. The count, though -slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: -after which Lord Glenarvon took a hasty -leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s -feelings were. Gondimar and Lady -Margaret talked much together, during -the evening. Calantha wrote in anxiety -to Glenarvon. None now was near to -comfort her. As she retired slowly and -sadly to her room in dreadful suspense, -O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her -on the stairs. The sight of his countenance -was joy to her. “My lord waits -to see you, at the back door on the terrace,” -he said, as he affected to hasten -away with a portmanteau on his shoulder. -She heard and marked the words, and -watching an opportunity hastened to the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_277' href='#Page_277'>277</a></span> -door. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited -her and opened it. To be in the -power of this man was nothing: he was -Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; -yet she felt confused when she met -his eyes; and thought it an indignity -that her secret had been betrayed to him. -Glenarvon, however, had commanded her -to trust him; and every command of his -she too readily obeyed. “My lord is -going,” said the man. “Where?” she -cried; in the utmost agony. “From -Ireland,” said O’Kelly. “But he waits for -you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon -seeing him: my heart is tortured; confide -at least in me: let me have the comforts -of believing that I contribute to the -happiness of one human being upon earth; -I who cause the misery of so many. Glenarvon -turned from her to weep. “Tell me -the cause of your distress.” “They will tear -you from me,” he said. “Never, never,” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_278' href='#Page_278'>278</a></span> -she answered. “Look not on me, frail -fading flowret,” he said, in a hollow -mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor -thus waste thy sweets upon a whited sepulchre, -full of depravity, and death. -Could’st thou read my heart—see how -it is seared, thou would’st tremble and -start back with horror.” “I have bound -myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared -for the worst: it cannot be worse -than the crime of which I am guilty; -grieve not then for me, I am calm, and -happy—oh most happy, when I am thus -with you.” -</p> - -<p> -There is a look of anguish, such as a -slave might give when he betrays his -master—such as a murderer in thought -might shew previous to the commission -of the bloody act, in presence of his -victim:—such a look, so sad, so terrible, -impressed a momentary gloom over -the beautiful countenance of Glenarvon. -Yes, when she said that she was happy, at -that very time he shrunk from the joy she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_279' href='#Page_279'>279</a></span> -professed; for he knew that he had led -her to that which would blast all peace -in her heart for ever. -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, -“before I explain myself, let me press thee -once more to my heart—let me pour out -the agonies of my soul, to my only friend. -I have promised your aunt to leave you: -yes; for thy dear sake, I will go; and -none shall hereafter say of me, that I led -you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast -disgrace upon your name! Whatever my -wrongs and injuries, to others, let one -woman exist to thank me for her preservation. -It will break my heart; but I -will do it. You will hear dreadful things -of me, when I am away: you will learn to -hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, -never.” “I believe you love me,” he continued; -“and ere we part, ere we forget -every vow given and received—every -cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly -for me, give me some proof of your sincerity. -Others perhaps have been my -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_280' href='#Page_280'>280</a></span> -victims; I, alas! am yours. You do not -know, you cannot know what I feel, you -have made me insensible to every other -pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you, -and for you, and can you, can you then -abandon me? go if it be your pleasure, -receive the applause of the world, of -friends, of those who affect the name; and -when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a -voluntary exile from his country without -one being to share his sorrows, perishing -by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous -malady, which long has preyed upon his -constitution, then let your husband and -your aunt triumph in the reflection, that -they have hastened his doom. And you, -wretched victim, remember that, having -brightened for a few short hours my weary -path, you have left me at the last more -lonely, more deserted even than when first -you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, -let others mock at my agony, and doubt -the truth of one who has but too well -deserved their suspicions; but do not you -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_281' href='#Page_281'>281</a></span> -refuse to believe me. Young as I appear, -I have made many miserable: but none -more so than myself; and, having cast -away every bright hope of dawning fame -and honor, I renounce even now the -only being who stands like a guardian angel -between myself and eternal perdition. -Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet -believing it, wilt thou consent that I should -thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for -thee the strong passions that, like vultures, -prey upon my heart—fortune, honor, -every hope, even beyond the grave, for -thy happiness—for thy love! Ah say -canst thou—wilt thou now abandon -me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, -weeping bitterly. “I am much more miserable -than you can be; I have more love -for you than it is possible you can feel for -me. I am not worth half what you inspire. -I never will consent to part.” “Then -you must accompany me,” he said, looking -her full in the face. “Alas! if I do -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_282' href='#Page_282'>282</a></span> -thus, how will yourself despise me. -When society, and those whose opinion -you value, brand her name with infamy -who leaves all for you, where shall we -fly from dishonor? how will you bear -up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you -in my arms from the country that condemns -you—in my heart, your name -shall continue spotless as purity,” he -replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist -every opposition, and slay every one who -shall dare to breathe one thought against -you. For you I could renounce and despise -the world; and I will teach you that love -is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave -for it is nothing to it.” -</p> - -<p> -“How can I resist you?” she answered. -“Allow me to hear and yet forget the lessons -which you teach—let me look on -you, yet doubt you—let me die for you, -but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with -me now—even now,” said Glenarvon -fiercely,—“I must make you mine before -we part: then I will trust you; but not -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_283' href='#Page_283'>283</a></span> -till then.” He looked upon her with -scorn, as she struggled from his grasp. -“Calantha, you affect to feel more than -I do,” he cried; “but your heart could -not exist under what I endure. You -love!—Oh you do not know how to -love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look -not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I -have tempted the dangers of guilt; for you, -I have trembled and wept; and, believe -it, for you I will bear to die.” “Then give -yourself to me: this very hour be mine.” -“And I am yours for ever: but it must -be your own free act and deed.” “Fear not; -Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed -to an interview with her to-morrow; -and your aunt dares not refuse you, -if you say that you will see me. It is on -your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is -but of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed -foreign to my nature; but what disguise -would I not assume to see you?” -</p> - -<p> -O’Kelly interrupted this conference -by whispering something in his ear.—“I -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_284' href='#Page_284'>284</a></span> -will attend her instantly.” “Whom?” -said Calantha. “Oh no one.” “Ah -speak truly: tell me what mean those -words—those mysterious looks: you -smile: that moon bears witness against -you; tell me all.” “I will trust you,” -said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for -God’s sake,” said O’Kelly interfering -“remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” -“Hear me,” said Glenarvon, in -an authoritative tone, repulsing him. -“What are you all without me? Tremble -then at daring to advise, or to offend -me. Lady Avondale is mine; we are -but one, and she shall know my secret, -though I were on the hour betrayed.” -“My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if -you do not hasten home; you are watched: -I do implore you to return to the castle.” -Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted -her to leave him; he promised to see her -on the following morning; and she hastened -home. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_285' href='#Page_285'>285</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXX. -</h2> - - -<p> -Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during -the whole of the night; and in the morning, -she heard that the Duke was in possession -of her letter. Lady Margaret -entered, and informed her of this. -</p> - -<p> -She also stated that the note would -soon be returned into her own hands, and -that this might convince her that although -much might be suspected from its contents, -neither herself nor the Duke were -of opinion that Lord Avondale should -at present be informed of the transaction. -While Lady Margaret was yet speaking, -the Duke, opening the door, with a severe -countenance approached Calantha, and -placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon upon -the table, assured her, with coldness, that -he considered her as her own mistress, -and should not interfere. Lady Margaret -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_286' href='#Page_286'>286</a></span> -without a word being uttered on her part, -left the room. -</p> - -<p> -As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached -his daughter. “This is going -too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: -“there is no excuse for you.” She asked -him, with some vivacity, why he had -broken the seal, and wherefore it was not -delivered as it was addressed. With coldness -he apologized to her for the liberty -he had taken, which even a father’s right -over an only child, he observed, could -scarcely authorise. “But,” continued he, -“duty has of late been so much sacrificed -to inclination, that we must have charity -for each other. As I came, however, by -your letter somewhat unfairly, I shall -make no comments upon it, nor describe -the feelings that it excited in my mind—only -observe, I will have this end here; -and my commands, like yours, shall be -obeyed.” He then reproached her for -her behaviour of late. “I have seen you -give way,” he said, “to exceeding low -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_287' href='#Page_287'>287</a></span> -spirits, and I am desirous of knowing -why this grief has suddenly been changed -to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? -Will nothing cure you of this love -of merriment? Will an angry father, -an offended husband, and a contemning -world but add to and encrease it? Shall -I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep -over the hardness of a heart, that is insensible -to the grief of others, and has -ceased to feel for itself? Alas! I looked -upon you as my comfort and delight; but -you are now to me, a heavy care—a never -ceasing reproach; and if you persist -in this line of conduct, the sooner you -quit this roof, which rings with your disgrace, -the better it will be for us all. -Those who are made early sacrifices to -ambition and interest may plead some excuse; -but you, Calantha, what can you -say to palliate your conduct? A father’s -blessing accompanied the choice your -own heart made; and was not Avondale -a noble choice? What quality is there, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_288' href='#Page_288'>288</a></span> -whether of person or of mind, in which -he is deficient? I think of him with -feelings of pride.”—“I do so, too, my -father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he -continued, in an offended tone, “fly to -the arms of your new lover, and seek -with him that happiness of which you -have robbed me for ever, and which I -fear you yourself never more will know. -Do not answer me, or by those proud -looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am -aware of all you would urge; but am not -to be swayed by the sophistry you would -make use of. This is no innocent friendship. -Beware to incense me by uttering -one word in its defence. Are you not -taught that God, who sees the heart, looks -not at the deed, but at the motive? In -his eye the murderer who has made up -his mind to kill, has already perpetrated -the deed; and the adultress who....”—“Ah, -call me not by that name, my father: -I am your only child. No proud looks -shall now shew themselves, or support -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_289' href='#Page_289'>289</a></span> -me; but on my knees here, even here, -I humble myself before you. Speak not -so harshly to me: I am very miserable.” -</p> - -<p> -“Consent to see him no more. Say it, -my child, and all shall be forgotten—I -will forgive you.”—“I must see him -once more—ah! once more; and if he -consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! -do I live to hear such words? It is then -to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no -effort of your own, that I am to owe -your amendment? See him then, but -do it in defiance of my positive commands:—see -him, Calantha; but the -vengeance of an offended God, the malediction -of a father fall on thee for thy -disobedience:—see him if it be thy mad -resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A -lover may be found at any time; but a -father, once offended, is lost for ever: -his will should be sacred; and the God -of Heaven may see fit to withdraw his -mercy from a disobedient child.” The -Duke, as he spoke these words, trembling -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_290' href='#Page_290'>290</a></span> -with passion, and darting an angry eye -upon Calantha, left her. The door closed. -She stood suspended—uncertain how -to act.— -</p> - -<p> -At length recovering, she seized a pen, -and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am miserable; -but let me, at all events, spare -you. Come not to the Castle. Write to -me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for -ever. Oh, Glenarvon, I must indeed see -you no more; or involve all whom I love, -and yourself who art far dearer, in my -disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately. -You must decide for me: -I have no will on earth but yours—no -hope but in the continuance of your love. -Do not call me weak. Write to me: say -you approve; for if you do not, I cannot -obey.” -</p> - -<p> -Having sent her letter with some fear, -she went to Mrs. Seymour, who was far -from well, and had been some days confined -to her room. She endeavoured to -conceal from her what had passed in the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_291' href='#Page_291'>291</a></span> -morning respecting her father. Mrs. Seymour -spoke but little to her, she seemed -unequal to the task imposed upon her by -others, of telling Calantha that which she -knew would cause her pain. She was -dreadfully agitated, and, holding her -niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should -not leave her for any length of time. -</p> - -<p> -Towards noon, Calantha went out for a -few moments, and near the Elm wood -met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” -she cried, “do not come here: some -one may see you.”—“And if they do,” -he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I cannot -stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet -me to-night.”—“Where? How?”—“At -the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At -twelve.”—“That is too early.”—“At -three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then -farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He turned -back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” -he said. “You have given yourself to -me: I was not prepared for this wavering -and caprice.”—“Oh, you know not what -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_292' href='#Page_292'>292</a></span> -has passed.”—“I know all.”—“My -aunt is ill.” He smiled contemptuously. -“Act as you think right,” he said; “but -do not be the dupe of these machinations.”—“She -is really ill: she is incapable -of art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And -you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I -shall come to-night.”—“As -you please.”—“At all events, I shall be -there, Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on -me. You know, you well know your -power: do not lead me to infamy and ruin.” -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, -which he wrung with violence. Passion -in him was very terrible: it forced no -fierce words from his lips; no rush of -blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; -but the livid pale of suppressed rage spread -itself over every feature: even his hands -bore testimony to the convulsive effort -which the blood receding to his heart -occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he -gazed on Calantha with disdain.—“Weak, -timid being, is it for this I have renounced -so much?—Is it for such as you that -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_293' href='#Page_293'>293</a></span> -I have consented to live? How different -from her I once loved. Go to the -parents for whom I am sacrificed; call -back the husband who is so preferred to -me; note well his virtues and live upon -his caresses:—the world will admire -you and praise you. I knew how it would -be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid -change of countenance from malice to -bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his -eyes were filled with tears: his lips faltered -as he said farewell. Calantha approached -too near: he pressed her to his -heart. “I am yours,” she said, half suffocated. -“Nor parents, nor husband, nor -fear of man or God shall ever cause me -to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night -then.”—“I will.”—“You will -not play upon my irritated feelings by -penitential letters and excuses—you -are decided, are you? Say either yes or -no; but be firm to either.”—“I will come -then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_294' href='#Page_294'>294</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXI. -</h2> - - -<p> -In the course of the day, Glenarvon -wrote to Calantha “I have never sought -to win you to me after the manner other -men might desire,” he said. “I have -respected your opinions; and I have resisted -more than woman’s feelings can -conceive. But Calantha you have shared -the struggle. I have marked in your eye -the fire of passion, in the quivering of -your lip and changing complexion, the -fierce power which destroyed you. -When in the soft language of poetry, I -have read to you, or spoken with the -warmth I knew not how to feign, you -have turned from me it is true; but pride -more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. -Every principle in your heart -is shaken; every tie that ought to bind -thee most, is broken; and I who should -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_295' href='#Page_295'>295</a></span> -triumph at my success, weep only for -thy fall. I found thee innocent, confiding -and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh -God! wilt thou thus be left? wilt thou -know that thy soul itself partakes in thy -guilt, wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon -this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you -have given me a solemn promise to meet -me in secret: it is the first time concealment -has been rendered necessary. I -know your nature too well, not to be convinced -that you are already preparing to -retract. Do so, if it be your will:—I -wish you not to take one step without -fully appreciating its consequences, and -the crime incurred. I have never disguised -to you the guilt of our attachment -since the moment in which I felt assured -of my own sentiments. I wished you to -feel the sacrifice you were making: how -otherwise could I consider it as any? my -love is worth some risk. Every one -knows my weakness; and did you feel -half what you inspire, you would be -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_296' href='#Page_296'>296</a></span> -proud, you would glory in what you now -attempt to hide. The woman I love, -must see, must hear, must believe and -confide in no other but me. I renounce -every other for you—And, now that I -claim you as my own, expect the fulfilment -of your many professions. Shew -me that you can be firm and true: give -yourself to me entirely: you are mine; and -you must prove it. I am preferred before -every earthly being in my Calantha’s heart—my -dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed -I have long ceased to entertain a -single doubt; but now I require more. -Even in religious faith—even in hopes, -in reliance upon the mercy of God, I -cannot bear a competitor and a rival.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is a rite accounted infamous -amongst christians:—there is an oath -which it is terrible to take. By this, by -this alone, I will have you bound to me—not -here alone, but if there be a long -hereafter then shall we evermore be -linked together: then shall you be mine -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_297' href='#Page_297'>297</a></span> -far more, far dearer than either mistress -or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery -of superstition: but what on earth deserves -a higher name? Every varying -custom and every long-established form, -whether in our own land, or those far distant -tracts which the foot of man has -rarely traversed, deserves no higher name. -The customs of our forefathers—the habit -of years, give a venerable and sacred -appearance to many rites; but all is a -dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the -frail perishable attempts of human invention. -Even the love we feel, Calantha—the -beaming fires which now stimulate -our hearts, and raise us above others is -but illusion—like the bright exhalations -which appear to mislead, then vanish -and leave us more gloomy than before.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand -was cold; no varying colour, no trepidation -shewed either life or vigour; -there was a struggle in her mind; and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_298' href='#Page_298'>298</a></span> -a voice seemed to call to her from her -inmost soul: “For the last time, Calantha, -it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last -time I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience -as it cries to thee for the last time:—go -not to thy ruin; plunge not thy -soul into the pit of hell; hurl not destruction -upon thy head. What is this -sin against thy religion? How canst thou -throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy -God? It is a mere mockery of words; -a jealous desire to possess every avenue -of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee -from every feeling of remorse and virtue; -to plunge thee in eternal perdition. -Hear me: by thy mother’s name I call: -go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... -“Am I mad, or wherefore is my soul -distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again -to me: my comforter—my heart’s friend, -oh leave me not. By every tie thou art -bound to me: never, never will I forsake -thee. What are the reproaches of conscience—what -the fancied pangs of remorse, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_299' href='#Page_299'>299</a></span> -to the glory, the ecstacy of being -thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, -perhaps, by all who hear my fate, I have -lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity -I may be called upon to endure. -Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. -Thy words are like the joys of Heaven: -Thy presence is the light of life: existence -without thee would not be worth -the purchase.—Come all the woes that -may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.” -</p> - -<p> -The nurse entered Calantha’s room, -bearing her boy in her arms. She would -not look on him:—“take him away,” -she said; “take him to my aunt.” The -child wished to stay:—for the first time -he hung about her with affection; for -he was not of that character, and seldom -shewed his love by infantine fondness -and caresses. She started from his gentle -grasp, as if from something terrible: -“take him away,” she shrieked to the -affrighted woman, “and never let him -come near me more.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_300' href='#Page_300'>300</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -I know there are some whose eyes -may glance upon these pages, who will -regard with indignation the confession -here made respecting the character of -Calantha. But it is as if those who had -never known sickness and agony mocked -at its power—as if those who had never -witnessed the delirious ravings of fever -or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they -must not judge who cannot understand. -</p> - -<p> -Driven to despair—guilty in all but -the last black deed that brands the name -and character with eternal infamy, Calantha -resolved to follow Glenarvon. How -indeed could she remain! To her every -domestic joy was forever blasted; and -a false estimate of honour inclined her -to believe, that it was right in her to go.—But -not to-night she said. Oh not -like a culprit and a thief in the midst of -the night, will I quit my father’s house, -or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve -herself almost to death for my sake. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_301' href='#Page_301'>301</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Preserving, during the evening, a sullen -silence, an affectation of offended -pride, Calantha retired early; looked -once upon the portraits of her husband -and mother; and then turned from them -in agony. “He was all kindness to me—all -goodness: he deserved a happier fate. -Happier! alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I -alone am miserable; never, never can -I behold him more.” These were the -last words Calantha uttered, as she prepared -for an interview she dreaded. It -was now but twelve o’clock: she threw -herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation -and alarm for the hour of three. -A knock at the door aroused her. It was -O’Kelly; but he waited not one instant: -he left a gold casket with a ring, within -was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, -“I wait for thee. Oh repent not thy -promise.” Nothing else was written. -The hand she well knew: the signature -was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_302' href='#Page_302'>302</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXII. -</h2> - - -<p> -It was past three o’clock, when Calantha -opened the cabinet where the page’s -clothes were formerly kept, and drew -from thence his mantle and plumed hat; -and, thus disguised, prepared herself -for the interview. She slowly descended -the stairs: the noisy revels of -the servants might still at intervals be -heard: in a moment she glided through -the apartments and passages, till she -found herself at the door which led -to the terrace. It opened heavily, and -closed again with a loud noise. Alarmed, -lest she should be discovered, she flew -with rapidity over the terrace and lawn, -till she approached the wood, and then -she paused to take breath, and to listen if -all were silent. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha walked fearfully onwards. -The first night on which she had met -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_303' href='#Page_303'>303</a></span> -Glenarvon the moon was bright and full, -and the whole scene was lighted by its -rays; but now, it was on the wane—the -silver crescent shone alone, and the -clouds continually passing over it, cast -fearful shadows upon the grass. She -found herself in the thickest part of the -wood. She heard a hollow murmur:—it -was but the alders, waving in the wind, -which made a tremulous noise like voices -whispering at a distance. She passed -on, and the recollection that it was to -Glenarvon that she was hastening, and -that it was probably for the last time, -made her indifferent to her fate, and rendered -her fearless. Besides, the desperate -and the guilty never fear: a deeper -feeling renders them callous to all beside—a -spirit of defiance deadens in them -the very edge of apprehension. She proceeded -to the appointed place. The sea -dashed against the cliff below; and the -bleak wind whistled through the ruined -chapel as it came in hollow blasts over -the heath. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_304' href='#Page_304'>304</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Calantha perceived Glenarvon. He -was leaning upon one of the broken -rocks: he viewed, unawed, the melancholy -scene before him. No superstitious -terrors had power to shake his soul: -misery had done its utmost to subdue -him. Nor ray of hope, nor prosperity, -could afford him comfort, or remove -his dejection. In the first transports -of joy at seeing him, she darted towards -him; but when she marked the -paleness of his cheeks, and the stillness of -his attitude, she started back, and advanced -slowly: for she feared to disturb -him. -</p> - -<p> -The evening breeze had blown back -his dark locks, and bared his pale forehead, -upon which the light of the moonbeam -fell. She gazed upon him; and -while she contemplated the beautiful majesty -of his figure, his fixed and mournful -eyes, his countenance so fraught with -feeling, she approached him. “My -friend, my lover,” she said. “Ah! my -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_305' href='#Page_305'>305</a></span> -little trembling page, my Zerbellini, welcome -to my heart,” he answered: “I -knew you would not fail; but I have -waited for you till every bright illusion -of hope has been changed into visions of -despondency and fear. We meet now: -but is it indeed to part no more! Glenarvon -is yours, and shall never be severed -from you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! triumph over yourself and -me,” she cried, clasping her hands in -agony. “Ask any sacrifice but this. -Do not make me contemptible to you and -to myself.” “Calantha, the time for safety -is past: it is too late now. I have linked -my soul to yours; I love you in defiance -of myself; I know it to be guilt, and to -be death; but it must be. We follow -but the dark destiny that involves us: we -cannot escape from fate. For you alone -I live:—be now but mine. They tell you -of misery, of inconstancy, of lovers’ perjuries, -from the olden time; but you shall -prove them false. You leave much, it is -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_306' href='#Page_306'>306</a></span> -true—rank, fame and friends, a home -and the dearest ties of a mother’s heart—children; -but have you not embittered -all that you relinquish? Say that I yield -you up and fly,—to what fate shall I then -consign you? to what endless repining, -unjoyous solitary hours—remorse, regret, -the bitter taunt of friends, the insulting -scorn of strangers, and, worse than -all—O! worse than all the recoiling -heart can endure, the unsuspicious confidence -and caresses of an injured husband, -of him you have already betrayed. -O Calantha, turn from these to a lover’s -bosom; seek for comfort here; and now, -even now, accompany me in my flight -..................................” -</p> - -<p> -“I will leave all for you:—I love but -you: be you my master.” Scarce had -she uttered the impious oath which bound -her to him, when her heart, convulsed -with terror, ceased to beat. “Tis but in -words—oh God! ’tis but in words, that -thy guilty servant has offended. No—even -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_307' href='#Page_307'>307</a></span> -in the delirium of passion, even in -the transports of love, the fear of thy vengeance -spake terrors into her soul, and -ingratitude for all thy favours was not to -be numbered with her sins.” But the -oath which she had taken was terrible. -She considered herself as no longer under -the protection of her God. She trembled -exceedingly; and fear for one moment -overpowered her. Lord Glenarvon -looked upon her, mournfully, as if sorry -for the sin which he had cast upon her -soul. “Now,” he said, “you will look -back upon these moments, and you will -consider me with abhorrence. I have -led you with me to ruin and remorse.” -“On me—on me, be the sin; let it fall -upon me alone,” she replied; “but if, -after this, you forsake me, then shall the -vengeance of God be satisfied—the measure -of my crime be at its full. It is not -in my power—I cannot forsake you now: -I will go with you, Glenarvon, if it were -to certain death and ruin. I am yours alone. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_308' href='#Page_308'>308</a></span> -But this night I must return home,” she -said. “I will not leave my father thus—I -will not cause my aunt’s death.” “If you -leave me now I shall lose you.” “O Glenarvon, -let me return; and after seeing -them once again, I will follow you firm -until death.” -</p> - -<p> -He placed a ring upon her finger. -“It is a marriage bond,” he said; “and -if there be a God, let him now bear witness -to my vows:—I here, uncompelled -by menace, unsolicited by entreaty, do -bind myself through life to you. No -other, in word or thought, shall ever hold -influence or power over my heart. This -is no lover’s oath—no profession which -the intoxication of passion may extort: -it is the free and solemn purpose of a soul -conquered and enchained by you. Oh -Calantha, beloved, adored, look upon -me, and say that you believe me. Lean -not upon a lover’s bosom, but upon -a friend, a guardian and protector, a -being wholly relying on your mercy and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_309' href='#Page_309'>309</a></span> -kindness. My love, my soul, look yet -once upon me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why fall our tears? Is it in terror -of approaching evil, or in regret for involuntary -error? My bosom’s comfort, -my soul’s idol, look not thus coldly on -me; for I deserve it not. Your will is -mine: lead me as it delights your fancy: -I am a willing slave.” “If you abandon -me,” said Calantha, in tears. “May -the curse of God burn my heart and consume -me! may every malediction and -horror fall tenfold upon my head! may -phrenzy and madness come upon my -senses! and tortures in this world and -the next be my portion, if ever I change -my sentiments towards you!” -</p> - -<p> -With words like these, Glenarvon silenced -her as she returned to the castle; -and, strange as it may seem, untroubled -sleep—such sleep as in better days she -once enjoyed, fell upon all her senses, -quieted every passion, and obliterated, -for a few hours, the scenes of guilt which -tortured her with their remembrance. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_310' href='#Page_310'>310</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -To wake is terrible when the heaviness -of sin is upon us!—to wake, and see -every object around us the same as before; -but to feel that we are utterly -changed! I am still in a father’s house, -she thought, as late the ensuing morning -she opened her eyes. “My name is not -yet branded with disgrace; but I belong -alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. -Seymour sent for her: the nurse entered -with the children. But Calantha looked -upon the ring, and trembled. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, -dressing in haste, entered Mrs. Seymour’s -room. Never had she found it easy to -deceive till that moment. To tell her the -truth had been to kill her: she feigned -therefore with ease, for her aunt’s life required -it, and she herself was desperate. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_311' href='#Page_311'>311</a></span> -“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” -she replied, nor -blushed at affirming it. “Two days, -and you have not seen Glenarvon?” she -said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I -thought one had killed me,” replied -Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” -and she hurried from her presence. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode -out the whole of the day: it seemed to -her as if a moment’s pause or rest would -have been agony unutterable. And yet, -when the spirit is heavy there is something -unpleasant in the velocity of motion: -throwing, therefore, the reins upon -her well-trained steed, she paced slowly -over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections -which it had been pain to interrupt. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly a horse and rider, in full -speed, darting along the moor, approached -and crossed upon her path. “Whither -ride you lady, so slow?” said Miss St. -Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce -reining in her swift footed charger. “And -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_312' href='#Page_312'>312</a></span> -whither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said -Calantha, courteously returning her salute. -“To perdition,” cried Elinor; -“and they that wish to follow must ride -apace.” The hat and plume of sacred -green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, -were all but too well observed -by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. -Clara, fixing her dark eyes upon her, -asked her respecting him. “Is thy young -lover well?” she said; “and wilt thou -be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: -he could not rest: didst thou?” -Saying which, she smiled, and rode away. -</p> - -<p> -Oppressed with many bitter doubts, -Calantha returned to the Castle; and -what is strange, she felt coldly towards -Glenarvon. On her return, she found letters -from him far the most ardent, the -most impassioned she had yet received. -He spoke with grief of her unkindness: -he urged her by every tie most dear, -most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. -Yet, that night, she went not to meet -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_313' href='#Page_313'>313</a></span> -him; she wrote not kindly; she loved not. -She retired early; and her thoughts were -painful and terrible. But such is the inconsistency -of the human heart; her coldness -seemed but to encrease his ardour. She -received that night, the warmest, the most -unguarded letters; she even now dreaded -the violence of his attachment. Remorse, -she felt, had taken the place of passion -in her own heart: for all within was -chilled, was changed. -</p> - -<p> -As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling -to think—unable to forget, she heard -a step stealing along the passage; and in -a moment Glenarvon entered her apartment. -“We are lost,” she cried. “I -care not,” he said, “so that I but see -you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak -lower,” he said, approaching -her: “be calm, for think you that when -you have risked so much for me, I dare -not share the danger. After all, what is -it? Whoever enters must do it at their -peril: their life shall pay the forfeit: I -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_314' href='#Page_314'>314</a></span> -am armed.”—“Good God! how terrible -are your looks: I love you; but I fear -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, -“that day when I first told you of -my love? You blushed then, and wept: -did you not? But you have forgotten to -do either now. Why, then, this strange -confusion?”—“I am sick at heart. Leave -me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear -of all earthly beings, turn not thus away -from me; look not as if you feared to -meet me; feel not regret; for if it be a -crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me -alone. I know how men of the world -can swear and forswear: I know, too, -how much will be attempted to sever -you from me: but by that God in whose -sacred eye we stand; by all that the human -heart and soul can believe and cherish, -I am not one of that base kind, who -would ever betray the woman that trusted -in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, -I could not change. You are all on earth -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_315' href='#Page_315'>315</a></span> -that I love, and, perhaps what is better -worth, that I esteem and respect—that I -honor as above every other in goodness, -purity and generous noble feelings. O! -think not so humbly of yourself: say -not that you are degraded. My admiration -of you shall excuse your error: my -faithful attachment whilst existence is -given to either of us shall atone for all. -Look on me, my only friend; dry up the -tears that fall for an involuntary fault; -and consider me as your protector, your -lover, your husband.” -</p> - -<p> -There required not many words, not -many protestations. Calantha wept bitterly; -but she felt happy. “If you change -now,” she said, “what will become of -me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, -from this country: I ask not for other -ties than those that already bind us. Yet -I once more repeat it, I know you must -despise me.”—“What are words and -vows, my heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what -are they? The false, the vain, the worldly-minded -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_316' href='#Page_316'>316</a></span> -have made use of them; but I -must have recourse to them, Calantha, -since you can look at me, and yet mistrust -me. No villany that ever yet existed, -can exceed that which my falsehood to -you would now evince. This is no common -worldly attachment: no momentary -intoxication of passion. Often I have -loved: many I have seen; but none ever -sacrificed for me what you have done; -and for none upon earth did I ever feel -what I do for you. I might have made -you mine long ago: perhaps I might have -abused the confidence shewn me, and -the interest and enthusiasm I had created; -but, alas! you would then have despised -me. I conquered myself; but it was to -secure you more entirely. I am yours -only: consent therefore to fly with me. -Make any trial you please of my truth. -What I speak I have written: my letters -you may shew, my actions you may observe -and sift. I have not one thought -that is unknown to you—one wish, one -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_317' href='#Page_317'>317</a></span> -hope of which you are not the first and -sole object. Many disbelieve that I am -serious in my desire that you should accompany -me in my flight. They know -me not: I have no views, no projects. -Men of the world look alone to fortune, -fame, or interest; but what am I? The -sacrifice is solely on your part: I would -to God it were on mine. If even you refuse -to follow me, I will not make this a -plea for abandoning you: I will hover -around, will protect, will watch over you. -Your love makes my happiness: it is my -sole hope in life. Even were you to change -to me, I could not but be true to you.” -</p> - -<p> -Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to -accompany him: he risked much; and -seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding -the guileful heart; and he -who had deceived many, could assuredly -deceive her. Yet it appears, that -he urged her more than ever to fly -with him; and that when, at length she -said that her resolution was fixed—that -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_318' href='#Page_318'>318</a></span> -she would go, his eyes in triumph gloried -in the assurance; and with a fervour he -could not have feigned he called her his. -Hitherto, some virtuous, some religious -hopes, had still sustained her: now all -ceased; perversion led the way to crime, -and hardness of heart and insensibility -followed. -</p> - -<p> -One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her -confessions of former scenes. One by -one, he betrayed to her the confidence -others had reposed in his honour. She -saw the wiles and windings of his mind, -nor abhorred them: she heard his mockery -of all that is good and noble; nor turned -from him. Is it the nature of guilty love -thus to pervert the very soul? Or what -in so short a period could have operated -so great a change? Till now the hope of -saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had -led her on: now frantic and perverted -passion absorbed all other hopes; and -the crime he had commended, whatever -had been its drift, she had not feared to -commit. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_319' href='#Page_319'>319</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Calantha had read of love, and felt it; -she had laughed at the sickening rhapsodies -of sentiment, and turned with disgust -from the inflammatory pages of looser -pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented -every feeling she most abhorred; -and it was in herself, she found the -reality of all that during her whole existence, -she had looked upon with contempt -and disgust. Every remaining -scruple left her; she still urged delay; -but to accompany her master and lover, -was now her firm resolve. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_320' href='#Page_320'>320</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIV. -</h2> - - -<p> -Glenarvon had retired unperceived by -any, on the evening he had visited her, -in her apartment. The following day -he appeared at the castle; they both avoided -each other: she indeed trembled at -beholding him. “Meet me at the chapel -to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she -obeyed too well. -</p> - -<p> -They were returning through the -wood: she paused one moment to look -upon the sea: it was calm; and the air -blew soft and fresh upon her burning -forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... -a female figure, passing through the thicket -behind, with a hasty step approached -them, and knelt down as if imploring -for mercy. Her looks were wild; -famine had stamped its hollow prints in -furrows on her cheeks; she clasped her -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_321' href='#Page_321'>321</a></span> -hands together; and fixing her eyes wildly -upon Glenarvon, remained in silence. -</p> - -<p> -Terrified, Calantha threw herself for -safety at his feet; and he clasping her -closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh -Glenarvon,” she cried, “look, look; it -is not a human form: it is some dreadful -vision, sent to us by the power of God, -to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, -fear not: no power shall harm you.” -</p> - -<p> -Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed -for one moment on the thin and ghastly -form, that had occasioned her terror. -“God bless you,” cried the suppliant. -He started at the hollow sound. It seemed -to him indeed that the awful blessing -was a melancholy reproach for his broken -faith. He started: for in that emaciated -form, in that wild and haggard eye, -he thought he recognized some traces of -one whom he had once taken spotless as -innocence to his heart,—then left a prey -to remorse and disappointment. For the -sake of that resemblance, he offered money -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_322' href='#Page_322'>322</a></span> -to the wretch who implored his mercy, -and turned away, not to behold again -so piteous, so melancholy a spectacle. -</p> - -<p> -Intently gazing upon him, she uttered -a convulsive groan, and sunk extended -on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon -both flew forward to raise her. But -the poor victim was no more: her spirit -had burst from the slight bonds that -yet retained it in a world of pain -and sorrow. She had gazed for the last -time upon her lover, who had robbed her -of all happiness through life; and the -same look, which had first awakened -love in her bosom, now quenched the -feeling and with it life itself. The last -wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a -curse for him who had abandoned her: -and the tear that he shed unconsciously -over a form so altered, that he did not -know her, was the only tear that blessed -the last hour of Calantha’s once favorite -companion Alice Mac Allain. -</p> - -<p> -Oh! need a scene which occasioned -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_323' href='#Page_323'>323</a></span> -her every bitter pang be repeated?—need -it be said that, regardless of themselves or -any conclusions which their being together -at such an hour might have occasioned: -they carried the unconscious -girl to the door of the castle, where -O’Kelly was waiting to receive them. -Every one had retired to rest; it was late; -and one of Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly -alone remained in fearful anxiety watching -for their return. -</p> - -<p> -Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless -form before her, Calantha turned to -Glenarvon. But his countenance was -changed; his eyes were fixed. “It is -herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the -sight, a faintness came over him:—the -name of Alice was pronounced by him. -O’Kelly understood his master. “Is it -possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the -girl in his arms, he promised Calantha -to do all in his power to restore her, -and only implored her to retire to her own -apartment: “For my master’s sake, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_324' href='#Page_324'>324</a></span> -dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He -was indeed no longer the same subservient -strange being, he had shewn himself -hitherto; he seemed to assume a new -character, on an occasion which called -for his utmost exertion; he was all activity -and forethought, commanding every -thing that was to be done, and awakening -lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a -sense of their situation. -</p> - -<p> -Although Lady Avondale was at last -persuaded to retire, it may be supposed -that she did not attempt to rest; and -being obliged in some measure to inform -her attendant of what had passed, she -sent her frequently with messages to -O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy -friend. At last she returned with a -few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. -“Calantha,” he said, “You will now -learn to shudder at my name, and look -upon me with horror and execration. -Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is -Alice whom we beheld. She came to -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_325' href='#Page_325'>325</a></span> -take one last look at the wretch who had -seduced, and then abandoned her:—She -is no more. Think not, that to screen -myself, I have lost the means of preserving -her.—Think me not base enough for -this; but be assured that all care and assistance -have been administered. The aid -of the physician, however has been vain. -Calm yourself Calantha: I am very -calm.” -</p> - -<p> -The maid, as she gave this note, told -Calantha that the young woman whom -Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door -of the castle, was poor Miss Alice—so -altered, that her own father, she was sure -would not know her. “Did you see -her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly -took me to see her, when I carried the -message to him: and there I saw my -Lord Glenarvon so good, so kind, doing -every thing that was needed to assist her, -so that it would have moved the heart -of any one to have seen him.” While -the attendant thus continued to talk, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_326' href='#Page_326'>326</a></span> -her young mistress wept, and having at -length dismissed her, she opened the -door, listening with suspense to every -distant noise. -</p> - -<p> -It was six in the morning, when a -loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused -her hurrying down, she beheld a -number of servants carrying some one -for air, into one of the outer courts. It -was not the lifeless corpse of Alice. From -the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared -a larger form, and, upon approaching still -nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving -that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, -who having arisen to enquire into -the cause of the disquiet he heard in -the house, had been abruptly informed -by some of the servants, that his daughter -had been discovered without any signs -of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly -and the other attendants had pressed -forward to assist him. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha now leaving him in their -hands, walked in trembling alarm, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_327' href='#Page_327'>327</a></span> -through the hall, once more to look upon -her unhappy friend. There leaning against -one of the high black marble pillars, -pale, as the lifeless being whom, stretched -before him, he still continued to contemplate, -she perceived Glenarvon. His eyes -were fixed: in his look there was all the -bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: -and in that noble form, the wreck -of all that is great might be traced. “Look -not thus,” she said, “Oh Glenarvon: it -pierces my heart to see you thus: grief -must not fall on one like you.” He took -her hand, and pressed it to his heart; -but he could not speak. He only pointed -to the pale and famished form before -him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt -down by its side and wept in agony, -“There was a time,” said he, “when I -could have feared to cast this sin upon -my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness -and affection, as I have done. But -I have grown callous to all; and now my -only, my dearest friend, I will tear myself -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_328' href='#Page_328'>328</a></span> -away from you for ever. I will not -say God bless you:—I must not bless -thee, who have brought thee to so much -misery. Weep not for one unworthy of -you:—I am not what you think, my Calantha. -Unblessed myself, I can but give -misery to all who approach me. All that -follow after me come to this pass; for my -love is death, and this is the reward of -constancy. Poor Alice, but still more -unhappy Calantha, my heart bleeds for -you: for myself, I am indifferent.” -</p> - -<p> -Gerald now returned, supported by -O’Kelly. The other servants, by his -desire, had retired; and when he approached -the spot were his child was -laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave -him. He did so; and Mac Allain advanced -towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive -a poor old man,” he said in a -faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, -my lord: a father’s curse in the agony of -his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh -lady Calantha,” said the old man, turning -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_329' href='#Page_329'>329</a></span> -to her, “lord Glenarvon has been very -noble and good to me; my sons had -debts, and he paid all they owed: they -had transgressed and he got them pardoned. -You know not what I owe to my lord; -and yet when he told me, this night, as I -upbraided the wretch that had undone -my child and was the cause of her dishonor -and death, that it was himself had taken -her from my heart; I knelt down and -cursed him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon -the agony of a wretched father, a poor -old man who has lived too long.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha could no longer master her -feelings; her sobs, her cries were bitter -and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly -away. O’Kelly insisted upon the -necessity of her assuming at least some -self command; and whispering to her, that -if she betrayed any violent agitation, the -whole affair must be made public: he -promised himself to bring her word of -every minute particular, if she would for a -few hours at least remain tranquil. “I -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_330' href='#Page_330'>330</a></span> -shall see you again,” she said, recovering -herself and approaching Lord Glenarvon -before she retired: “You are not going?” -“Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I -shall not leave the castle at this moment; -it would look like fear; but after this, my -dearest friend, I do not deceive myself, -you cannot, you ought not more to think -of me.” “I share your sorrows.” She -said: “you are most miserable; think not -then, that I can be otherwise.” “And -can you still feel any interest for one like -me? If I could believe this, even in the -bitterness of affliction, I should still feel -comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” -“Never. Oh would to God I could; but -it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon, -more than ever, even were it to death. -Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed her -hand, in silence; then following her “for -your dear sake, I will live,” he said. “You -are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! -how from my soul I honour you.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_331' href='#Page_331'>331</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -Calantha threw herself upon her bed; -but her agitation was too great to allow of -her recurring in thought to the past, and -fatigue once again occasioned her taking -a few moment’s rest. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_332' href='#Page_332'>332</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXV. -</h2> - - -<p> -When Lady Avondale awoke from her -slumbers she found the whole castle in a -state of confusion. Lady Margaret had -twice sent for her. Every one was occupied -with this extraordinary event. Her name, -and Lord Glenarvon’s were mentioned -together, and conjectures, concerning the -whole scene, were made by every individual. -</p> - -<p> -At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, -the body of Alice was conveyed to -his own house, near the Garden Cottage. -He wished no one to be informed of the -particulars of her melancholy fate. He -came, however, a few days after her removal, -to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but -mediately admitted him. They talked -together upon all that had occurred. He -gave her a letter, and a broach, which -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_333' href='#Page_333'>333</a></span> -had been found upon the body. It was -addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was -also a lock of hair, which seemed, from the -fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. -The letter was a mournful congratulation -on his supposed marriage with a lady in -England, written at some former period; -it wished him every happiness, and contained -no one reproach. The broach -consisted of a heart’s ease, which she entreated -him sometimes to wear in remembrance -of one, who had loved him -truly. “Heart’s ease to you—<i>mais triste -pensée pour moi</i>,” was engraved upon it. -“You must yourself deliver these,” said -Mac Allain looking wistfully at Calantha. -She promised to do so. -</p> - -<p> -Mac Allain then drew forth a larger -packet which was addressed to himself. -“I have not yet read it,” he said, “I -am not able to see for my tears; but it -is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and -when I have ended it, I will give it to -you, my dear lady, and to any other -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_334' href='#Page_334'>334</a></span> -whom you may wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” -said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of -gratitude and affection which you profess, -and have shewn our family, do not let -any one read this but myself:—do not -betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels your -sufferings: he more than shares them. -For my sake I ask you this. Keep this -transaction secret; and, whatever may be -suspected, let none know the truth.—Say: -may I ask it?” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. -He wept in bitter anguish. “The -destroyer of my child,” he said, “will -lead my benefactress into misery. Ah! -my dear young lady, how my heart -bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she turned -away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” -she said. “You may command; but -the news of my child’s death is spread: -many are talking of it already: I cannot -keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord -Glenarvon’s name appear.” Mac Allain -promised to do all in his power to silence -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_335' href='#Page_335'>335</a></span> -every rumour; and, with the help of -O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. -The story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan -first had carried her with him to -England, where she had fallen into -poverty and vice. No further enquiry -was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself -confided to many, the secret which Calantha -was so eager to conceal. -</p> - -<p> -The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may -be omitted by those who wish not to -peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to -read it when Calantha had ended it. He -also took the broach, and pressing it to his -lips, appeared very deeply affected. After -this, for a short time he absented himself -from the castle. The following pages, -written by Alice, were addressed to her -only surviving parent. No comment is -made on them; no apology offered for -their insertion. If passion has once subdued -the power of reason, the misery -and example of others never avails, even -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_336' href='#Page_336'>336</a></span> -were we certain of a similar fate. If -every calamity we may perhaps deserve, -were placed in view before us, we -should not pause—we should not avert -our steps. To love, in defiance of virtue -is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the -safety of its victims, were a generous but -useless effort of unavailable interference. -It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s -fury—far beyond human aid to quell. -Calantha read, however, the history of her -friend, and wept her fate. -</p> - - -<h3> -ALICE’S NARRATIVE. -</h3> - -<p> -“My dear and honoured father, -</p> - -<p> -“To you I venture to address this short -history of my unhappy life, and if sufferings -and pain can in part atone for my -misconduct, I surely shall be forgiven by -you; but never, while existence, however -miserable, is prolonged, never shall I -forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the -rumour of my disgrace has reached you, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_337' href='#Page_337'>337</a></span> -and added still severer pangs to those you -before endured. But oh! my father, I -have, in part, expiated my offences. Long -and severe sorrows have followed me, -since I left your roof, and none more -heart rending—oh! none to compare with -the agony of being abandoned by him, -for whom I left so much. You remember, -my dear father, that, during the last -year, which I passed at the castle, the -attention which Mr. Buchanan had paid -me, was so marked, that it occasioned -the most serious apprehensions in Lady -Margaret, on his account. Alas! I concealed -from every one, the true cause of -my encreasing melancholy; and felt -happy that the suspicions of my friends -and protectors were thus unintentionally -misled. I parted with Linden, nor told -him my secret. I suffered the severest -menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; -for I knew myself guilty, though not of -the crime with which I was charged. At -Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means to -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_338' href='#Page_338'>338</a></span> -make my escape, or rather, the mad attachment -of one far above me, removed -every obstacle, which opposed his wishes -and my own. -</p> - -<p> -“But it is time more particularly to acquaint -you, my dear father, by what accident -I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to -whom my fate was linked—whose attachment -once made me blessed—whose inconstancy -has deprived me of every earthly -hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained -leave to pass the day with you, that -my brother, Garlace, took me with him in -his boat, down the river Allan, and Roy -and yourself were talking eagerly of the -late affray which had taken place in our -village. I then pointed out to you the -ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you -the history of its unhappy owners. My -father, that evening, when yourself and -Roy were gone on shore, my brother -Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me -down the current with the wind: and as -we passed near the banks from behind -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_339' href='#Page_339'>339</a></span> -the rocks, we heard soft low notes, such -as they say spirits sing over the dead; -and as we turned by the winding shore, -we soon perceived a youth who was -throwing pebbles into the stream, and -ever whilst he threw them, he continued -singing in that soft, sweet manner -I have said. He spoke with us, and the -melancholy sound of his voice, attracted -us towards him. We landed close by the -place near which he stood. He accompanied -us to the front of the castle; but -then entreating us to excuse his proceeding -further, he retired; nor told us who -he was. From that day, I met him in -secret. Oh! that I had died before I had -met with one so young, so beautiful, but -yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save -him: my feeble help could not reclaim -him: it was like one who clasped a -drowning man, and fell with him in the -struggle: he had cast sin and misery -upon his soul. Never will I soil these -pages with the record of what he uttered; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_340' href='#Page_340'>340</a></span> -his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; -and soon, most soon shall I perish -with them....” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha paused in the narrative; she -gasped for breath; and wiping away the -tears which struggled in her eyes: “If -he treated my friend with unkindness,” -she said, “dear as he has hitherto been -to me, I will never behold him more.” -She then proceeded. -</p> - -<p> -“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I -am sick at heart. The rest of my story is -but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles -of guilty love, is but adding to the -crime already committed. I accuse him -of no arts to allure: he did but follow the -impulse of his feelings: he sought to save—he -would have spared me: but he had -not strength. O my father, you know -Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, -all that the most grateful enthusiasm could -feel; and for the sake of the son whom -he restored to you, you must forgive him -the ruin of an ungrateful child, who -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_341' href='#Page_341'>341</a></span> -rushed forward herself to meet it. Unused -to disguise my sentiments, I did not attempt -even to conceal them from him; -and when he told me I was dear, I too -soon shewed him, how much more so he -was to me. For when the moment of -parting forever came, when I saw my -Lord, as I thought, for the last time, you -must not judge me—you cannot even in -fancy imagine, all I at that hour endured—I -left my country, my home—I gave up -every hope on earth or heaven for him. -Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have -suffered cruelly; and you, my father, -when you read these pages, bless me, -forgive me. Turn not from me, for you -know not the struggles of my heart—you -can never know what I have endured.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; -and paused again. She paced to -and fro within her chamber, in strong -agitation of mind. She then eagerly returned -to peruse the few remaining pages, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_342' href='#Page_342'>342</a></span> -written by her miserable, her infatuated -friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. -“The God of Heaven will not, does not -condemn her. Oh she was spotless as -innocence compared with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“There were many amongst Lord -Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted -with my secret. Through every trouble -and some danger I followed him; nor -boast much of having felt no woman’s -fear; for who that loves can fear. I will -not dwell upon these moments of my -life: they were the only hours of joy, -which brightened over a career of misery -and gloom. Whilst loved by the object -of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded -by gaiety and amusement, the -voice of conscience is seldom heard; -and, I will confess it, at this time I fancied -myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s mistress; -and I knew not another wish upon -earth. In the course of the three years, -passed with him in England and in Italy, -I became mother of a child, and Clare, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_343' href='#Page_343'>343</a></span> -my little son, was dear to his father. But -after his birth, he forsook me. -</p> - -<p> -“We were in England at the time, at -the house of one of his friends, when -he first intimated to me the necessity of -his leaving me. He had resolved, he -said, to return to Florence, and I was in -too weak a state of health to permit my -accompanying him. I entreated, I implored -for permission to make the attempt. -He paused for some time, and then, as if -unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, -I will own it; but still he said -that I should go. He never appeared -more fond, more kind than the evening -before his departure. That evening, I -supped with him and his friends. He -seemed tired; and asked me more than -once if I would not go to rest. His servant, -a countryman of ours, by name -O’Kelly, brought me a glass with something -in it, which he bade me drink; but I -would not. Lord Glenarvon came to me, -and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_344' href='#Page_344'>344</a></span> -I said fondly, “I would take it from -your hands, so that I might but die -upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” -he said, “Alice, but what many a fine -lady in London cannot rest without. You -will need repose; you are going a long -journey to-morrow; drink it love; and -mayest thou sleep in peace.” I took the -draught and slumbered, even while reposing -in his arms.... -</p> - -<p> -“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to -hear that he was gone—to feel a misery, -I never can describe. From that day, I -fell into a dangerous illness. I knew not -what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, -that my lord had taken another mistress, -and was about to marry; that he -had provided for me with money; that he -had left me my child. I resolved to follow:—I -recovered in that hope alone. I went -over to Ireland:—the gates of the abbey -were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a -friend of my lord’s whom I once named -to you, met me as I stood an helpless -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_345' href='#Page_345'>345</a></span> -outcast, in my own country; he spoke to -me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The -well known sound of kindness. -“Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought -to enter the gates which were closed -against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I -knelt to him. Was he man—had he human -feelings? In mercy oh my God, in -mercy hear me, let me behold him again. -I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My -letters, my threats, my supplications were -answered with insult—every thing, every -thing was refused me.... -</p> - -<p> -“It was at night, in the dark night, my -father, that they took my boy—my Clare, -and tore him from my bosom.... -Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by ruffian -hands from my bosom. Oh! take my -life, but not my child. Villains! by -what authority do you rob me of my -treasure? Say, in whose name you do -this cruel deed. “It is by order of our -master Lord Glenarvon.” I heard no -more; yet in the convulsive grasp of -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_346' href='#Page_346'>346</a></span> -agony, I clasped the boy to my breast. -“Now tear him from his mother,” I -cried, “if you have the heart;” and my -strength was such that they seemed astonished -at my power of resistance. They -knew not the force of terror, when the -heart’s pulse beats in every throb, for -more than life. The boy clung to me -for support. “Save, save me,” he cried. -I knelt before the barbarians—my shrieks -were vain—they tore him from me.—I -felt the last pressure of his little arms—my -Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, -oh never, shall I see him again. Oh -wretched mother! my boy, my hope is -gone.—How often have I watched those -bright beaming eyes, when care and -despondency had sunk me into misery!—how -oft that radiant smile has cheered -when thy father cruelly had torn my -heart! now never, never, shall I behold -him more.... -</p> - -<hr /> -<p> -“Linden had heard of my disgrace and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_347' href='#Page_347'>347</a></span> -misery; he had written to me, but he -knew not where I was.... -</p> - -<p> -“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach -Cork.—I have proved the ruin of a whole -family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with -the rioters. A friend of his met me and -spoke to me of him, and of you my -father. He promised to keep my secret: -yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away -before you hear of my fate.—I grieve for -the troubles of my country.—All the malcontents -flock together from every side to -Belfont. Lord Glenarvon hears their -grievances:—his house is the asylum of -the unfortunate:—I alone am excluded -from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and -to my dear father.—I saw my brother -Garlace pass; he went through the court -to St. Alvin, with many other young men. -They talked loudly and gaily: he little -thought that the wretch who hid her face -from them was his sister—his own—his -only sister, of whom he was once so fond. -I saw Miss St. Clare too; but I never saw -Glenarvon.... -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_348' href='#Page_348'>348</a></span> -</p> - -<p class="letter_head"> - -“From my miserable Lodging, Cork,<br /> -Thursday Night. -</p> - -<p> -“The measure of my calamity is at its -full. The last pang of a breaking heart -is over.—My father forgive me.—We -sailed: a storm has driven us back. I -shall leave Ireland no more. The object -of my voyage is over: I am returned to -die ... what more is left me ... I -cannot write ... I have lost every thing. -</p> - - -<p class="letter_head"> -“Sunday. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been very ill.—When I sleep -fires consumes me: I heard sweet music, -such as angels sing over the dead:—there -was one voice clear, and soft as a lute -sounding at a distance on the water:—it -was familiar to me; but he fled when I -followed.... -Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, -he is come back—he is come back -to his own country covered with glory.—a -bride awaits him, I was told.—He is -happy; and I shall not grieve, if I see -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_349' href='#Page_349'>349</a></span> -him—yes, if I see him once more before I -die:—it is all I ask. I am so weak I can -scarcely write; but my father, my dear -Father, I wish to tell you all.—I will -watch for him among the crowd.... -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="letter_head"> -“Tuesday Night, Belfont. -</p> - -<p> -“I walked to Belfont;—and now the -bitterness of death is passed.—I have seen -that angel face once again—I have heard -that sweetest voice, and I can lie down, -and die; for I am happy now.—He passed -me; but oh! bitter bitter sight -to me, he turned from me, and looked -upon another.—They tell me it was my -preserver and benefactress: they say, it -was Lady Avondale. He looked proud -of her, and happy in himself.—I am -glad he looked happy; but yet I thought -he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon -me once so sadly, as if in this mournful -countenance and altered form, he traced -the features of her whom he had once -loved so well.—But no—it could not be:—he -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_350' href='#Page_350'>350</a></span> -did not know me; and I will see -him again. If he will but say, “Alice: -God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And -if my child still lives, and comes -again to you, so cold, so pale—take him -to your heart, dear father, and forgive his -mother—I am ill, and cannot write. -They watch me; my pencil is almost -worn out, and they will give me no other.—I -have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when -I came to Dublin, I gave all -the money I had to buy this broach—take -it to Lady Avondale. They say -she is very good, and perhaps, when she -hears how ill I am, she will pardon my -faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I -shall wait for him every day in -the same wood, and who knows, but I -may see him again....” -</p> - -<p> -And Alice did see him again;—and -she did kneel to him;—and she received -from his hands the relief he thought she -craved;—and the unexpected kindness -broke her heart.—She died;——and she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_351' href='#Page_351'>351</a></span> -was buried in the church near Belfont. -There was a white stone placed upon her -grave, and her old father went daily there -and wept; and he had the tree that now -grows there planted; and it was railed -around, that the cattle and wild-goats, -might not destroy it. -</p> - -<p class="p2"> -“Take the band from my head,” said -Calantha. “Give me air. This kills -me....” She visited the grave of -Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from -it, they uttered not one word as they -passed each other. The silence was more -terrible than a thousand lamentations.... -Lady Margaret sent for Calantha. She -looked ill, and was much agitated. “It -is time,” said Lady Margaret, to speak -to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh -it is past folly,” said Calantha -weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon -her with contempt. “How weak, and -how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, -need you thus confess them? and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_352' href='#Page_352'>352</a></span> -whatever your feelings, wherefore betray -them to the senseless crowd? -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a -hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as -yourself. Nature implanted passions in -me, which are not common to all; but -mark the difference between us:—a strong -mind dares at least conceal the ravages -the tempest of its fury makes. It -assumes that character to the vulgar herd -which it knows is alone capable of imposing -restraint upon it. Every one suspects -me, but none dare reproach me. -You on the contrary, are the butt against -which every censure is levelled: they -know, that your easy nature can pardon -malignity, and the hand that insults you -to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. -When you are offended, with puerile -impotence and passionate violence, -you exhibit the effects of your momentary -rage; and by breaking of tables, -or by idle words, shew your own weakness. -Thus you are ever subdued by the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_353' href='#Page_353'>353</a></span> -very exhibition of your passions. And -now that you love, instead of rendering -him you love your captive, you throw -yourself entirely in his power, and will -deeply rue the confidence you have -shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. -You know not Glenarvon. His heart, -black as it is, I have read and studied. -Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes -with him a sole and entire interest. -At this moment, he would fly with you -to the extremity of the earth, and when -he awakes from his dream, he will laugh -at you, and at himself for his absurdity. -Trust not that malignant and venomed -tongue. The adder that slumbers in the -bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and -bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. -Warned on all sides, beware! and if nothing -else can save you, learn at least -who this Glenarvon is, what he has done. -He is....” -</p> - -<p> -“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at -that very instant the door opened, and he entered. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_354' href='#Page_354'>354</a></span> -He started at seeing Calantha, -who, greatly embarrassed, durst not meet -his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have -heard him spoken of with unkindness -was a sort of treachery to an attachment -like theirs. Lady Margaret’s words had -wounded and grieved her; but they had -not shaken her trust; and when she -looked upon him and saw that beautiful -countenance, every doubt left her. Before -she quitted the room, she observed however, -with surprise, the smile of enchanting -sweetness, the air of kindness, even -of interest, with which Lady Margaret -received him; and one jealous fear crossing -her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully -enquiring what meant these -frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon -in a moment read the doubt:—“yes” he -cried, following her, you are right: if -ever I have loved another with idolatry -it was thy Aunt; but be assured I loved -in vain. And now Calantha, I would -agree, whilst existence were prolonged, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_355' href='#Page_355'>355</a></span> -to see her no more, sooner than cause -you one hour’s uneasiness. Be satisfied -at least, that she abhors me. -</p> - -<p> -“None of this whispering,” said Lady -Margaret, smiling gently, “at least in my -presence.” “I never loved before as now,” -said Glenarvon, aloud. “Never,” said -Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and -scornful smile. “No,” said Glenarvon, still -gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, -frankness in that heart, the one -I idolized too long, was like my own utterly -corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” -said Lady Margaret carelessly. “She had -her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness -of Glenarvon’s heart, its duplicity, -its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, -deeply interested and agitated, could not -quit the room. Glenarvon had seized -her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed -alone intent on penetrating her feelings: -she burst into tears: he approached -and kissed her. “You shall not tear -her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_356' href='#Page_356'>356</a></span> -“She goes with me by God: she is -bound to me by the most sacred oaths: -we are married: are we not dearest?” -“Have you confessed to her,” said -Lady Margaret contemptuously? “Every -thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“She loves you no doubt the better -for your crimes.” “She loves me. I do -believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned -tone, “and may the whole world, -if she wishes it, know that by every art, -by every power I possess, I have sought -her: provided they also know,” he continued -with a sneer, “that I have won -her. She may despise me; you may -teach her to hate; but of this be assured—you -cannot change me. Never, never -was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, -look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to you. -I would even appear humble—weak, if it -but gratify your vanity; for humility to -you is now my glory—my pride.” -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in -a protecting tone, “are you not vain?” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_357' href='#Page_357'>357</a></span> -“This Glenarvon has been the lover of -many hundreds; to be thus preferred is -flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear -niece, in what consists your superiority? -You are not as fair as these; you are not -perhaps as chaste; but you are loved -more because your ruin will make the misery -of a whole family, and your disgrace -will cast a shade upon the only man whom -Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior -to himself—superior both in mind and -person. This, child, is your potent charm—your -sole claim to his admiration. -Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, -point out to him an object more -worth the trouble and pain of rendering -more miserable and he will immediately -abandon you.” -</p> - -<p> -Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon -Lady Margaret. The disdain of that -glance silenced her, she even came forward -with a view to conciliate: and affecting -an air of playful humility—“I -spoke but from mere jealousy,” she said. -“What woman of my age could bear to -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_358' href='#Page_358'>358</a></span> -see another so praised, so worshipped in -her presence. It is as if the future heir -of his kingdom were extolled in presence -of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, -Glenarvon. I know, I see you love her.” -“By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried -exultingly, “with what furious rage the -little tygress gazes on you. She will -harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, -“if I do not carry her from your -presence. Come then Calantha: <i>we</i> shall -meet again,” he said, turning back and -pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s -apartment. The tone of his voice, and -his look, as he said this were peculiar: -nor did he for some moments regain his -composure. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Margaret spoke a few words to -Calantha that evening. “I am in the -power of this man,” she said, “and you -soon will be. He is cold, hard and cruel. -Do any thing: but, if you have one regard -for yourself, go not with him.” “I -know his history, his errors,” said Calantha; -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_359' href='#Page_359'>359</a></span> -“but he feels deeply.” “You -know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a -look of scornful superiority, “as he wishes -you to believe him. He even may -exaggerate, were that possible, his crimes, -the more to interest and surprise. You -know him, Calantha, as one infatuated -and madly in love can imagine the idol -of its devotion. But there will come a -time when you will draw his character -with darker shades, and taking from it -all the romance and mystery of guilt, see -him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, -which the light of genius, self-love and -passion, have warmed at intervals; but -which, in all the detail of every-day life, -sinks into hypocrisy and baseness. Crimes -have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, -even by noble minds, but Glenarvon -is little, contemptible and mean. He -unites the malice and petty vices of a woman, -to the perfidy and villany of a man. -You do not know him as I do.” -</p> - -<p> -“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignation -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_360' href='#Page_360'>360</a></span> -burning in her bosom, “we -never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange -one word with each other. I renounce -you entirely; and think you all -that you have dared to say against my -loved, my adored Glenarvon.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Margaret sought Calantha before -she retired for the night, and laughed at -her for her conduct. “Your rage, your -absurdity but excite my contempt. Calantha, -how puerile this violence appears -to me; above all, how useless. Now -from the earliest day of my remembrance -can any one say of me that they beheld -me forgetful of my own dignity from the -violence of my passions. Yet I feel, -think you not, and have made others feel. -Your childish petulance but operates -against yourself. What are threats, blows -and mighty words from a woman. When -I am offended, I smile; and when I stab -deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven. -Your friends talk of you with -kindness or unkindness as it suits their -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_361' href='#Page_361'>361</a></span> -fancy: some love; some pity, but none -fear Calantha. Your very servants, -though you boast of their attachment, -despise and laugh at you. Your husband -caresses you as a mistress, but of your -conduct he takes not even heed. What is -the affection of the crowd? what the love -of man? make yourself feared! Then, if -you are not esteemed, at least you are outwardly -honoured, and that reserve, that -self-controul, which you never sought -even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in -alarm. Many hate me; but who dares -even name me without respect. Yourself, -Calantha, even at this moment, are ready -to fall upon my bosom and weep, because -I have offended you. Come child—your -hand. I fain would save you, but you -must hear much that pains you, before I -can hope even to succeed. Only remember: -‘<i>si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous -mangera</i>.’” She smiled as she said this, -and Calantha, half offended, gave her the -hand for which she solicited. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_362' href='#Page_362'>362</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVI. -</h2> - - -<p> -Mrs. Seymour was now extremely unwell, -the least agitation was dreaded for -her. Calantha was constantly enquiring -after her; but could not bear to remain -long in her presence. Yet at night she -watched by her, when she did not know -of it; and though she had ceased to -pray for herself, she prayed for her. -Could it be supposed that, at such a moment, -any personal feelings would engage -Calantha to add to her uneasiness. Alas! -she sought in the last resources of guilt -to alleviate every apprehension she might -cherish; she feigned a calm she felt not; -she made every promise she meant not -to fulfil; she even spoke of Glenarvon -with some severity for his conduct to -Alice; and when Mrs. Seymour rejoiced -at her escape, she pressed her hand and -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_363' href='#Page_363'>363</a></span> -wept. Lady Margaret, from the day of -their quarrel, cold and stern, ever arose to -leave the room when Calantha entered it, -and Mrs. Seymour seeing resentment -kindling in her niece’s eye, in the gentlest -manner urged her to bear with her aunt’s -humour. -</p> - -<p> -Lord Glenarvon had not written to Calantha -for some days; he had left the -castle; and she laboured under the most -painful suspense. The narrative of Alice’s -sufferings was still in her possession. At -length he sent for it. “My Calantha,” -he said, in a letter she received from him, -“My Calantha, I have not heard from -you, and my misery is the greater, as I -fear that you are resolved to see me no -more. I wish for the narrative in your -possession; I know the impression it -must make; and strange as it may appear, -I almost rejoice at it. It will spare -you much future sorrow; and it can -scarce add one pang to what I already -suffer. Had you accompanied me, it -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_364' href='#Page_364'>364</a></span> -was, I will now acknowledge, my firm -resolve to have devoted every moment of -my life to your happiness—to have seen, -to have thought, to have lived, but for -you alone. I had then dared to presume, -that the excess of my attachment would -remunerate you, for all the sacrifices you -might be compelled to make; that the -fame of Glenarvon would hide, from the -eyes of a censorious world, the stigma of -disgrace, which must, I fear, involve you; -and that, at all events, in some other -country, we might live alone for each -other.—The dream is past; you have -undeceived me; your friends require it: -be it, as you and as they desire. I am -about to quit Ireland. If you would see -me before I go, it must be on the instant. -What are the wrongs of my country to -me? Let others, who have wealth and -power, defend her:—let her look to -English policy for protection; to English -justice for liberty and redress. Without -a friend, even as I first set foot upon these -shores, I now abandon them.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_365' href='#Page_365'>365</a></span> -</p> - -<p> -“Farewell, Calantha. Thou art the -last link which yet binds me to life. It -was for thy sake—for thine alone, that I -yet forbore. It is to save thee, that I -now rush onward to meet my fate: grieve -not for me. I stood a solitary being till -I knew you. I can encounter evils when -I feel that I alone shall suffer. Let me -not think that I have destroyed you. But -for me, you then might have flourished -happy and secure. O why would you -tempt the fate of a ruined man?—I entreat -you to send the papers in your possession. -I am prepared for the worst. -But if you could bring yourself to believe -the agony of my mind at this moment, -you would still feel for me, even -though in all else chilled and changed.—Farewell, -dearest of all earthly beings—my -soul’s comforter and hope, farewell.” -“I will go with thee Glenarvon, even -should my fate exceed Alice’s in misery—I -never will forsake thee.” -</p> - -<p> -Calantha’s servant entered at that moment, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_366' href='#Page_366'>366</a></span> -and told her that Lord Glenarvon -was below—waiting for the answer. -“Take these papers,” said Calantha, and -with them she enclosed a ring which had -been found upon Alice: “Give them -yourself to Lord Glenarvon: I cannot see -him.—You may betray me, if it is your -inclination; I am in your power; but to -save is not. Therefore, for God’s sake, do -not attempt it....” The attendant had -no difficult task in executing this errand. -She met Lord Glenarvon himself, at the -door of the library. -</p> - -<p> -Upon alighting from his horse, he had -enquired for Lady Margaret Buchanan; -before she was prepared to receive him, -the papers were delivered into his hands; -he gave them to O’Kelly; and after paying -a shorter visit to Lady Margaret than -at first he had intended, he returned to -the inn at Belfont, to peruse them. First -however he looked upon the broach, and -taking up the ring, he pressed it to his -lips and sighed, for he remembered it -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_367' href='#Page_367'>367</a></span> -and her to whom it had been given. -Upon this emerald ring, the words: -“<i>Eterna fede</i>,” had been inscribed. He -had placed it upon his little favourite’s -hand, in token of his fidelity, when first -he had told her of his love; time had -worn off and defaced the first impression; -and “<i>Eterno dolor</i>,” had been engraved -by her in its place—thus telling in few -words the whole history of love—the immensity -of its promises—the cruelty of -its disappointment. -</p> - -<p> -Calantha was preparing to answer Glenarvon’s -letter: her whole soul was absorbed -in grief, when Sophia entered and -informed her that the Admiral was arrived. -It was, she knew, his custom to -come and go without much ceremony; -but his sudden presence, and at such a -moment, overpowered her. Perhaps too, -her husband might be with him! she -fell: Sophia called for assistance. “Good -God! what is the matter?” she said, -“You have just kilt my lady,” said the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_368' href='#Page_368'>368</a></span> -nurse; “but she’ll be better presently: -let her take her way—let her take -her way.” And before Calantha could -compose herself, Sir Richard was in -her room. She soon saw by his hearty -open countenance, that he was perfectly -ignorant of all that had occurred; and -to keep him so, was now her earnest endeavour. -But she was unused to deceit: -all her attempts at it were forced: it was -not in her nature; and pride alone, not -better feeling prevented its existence. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_369' href='#Page_369'>369</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVII. -</h2> - - -<p> -Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt -appearance; and told Calantha that he -had been with Lord Avondale to visit his -relations at Monteith, where he had left -him employed, as he said, from morning -till night, with his troops in quelling disturbances -and administering justice, which -he performed but ill, having as he expressed -it, too kind a heart. He then assured -her that her husband had promised -to meet him the present day at the castle, -and enquired of her if she knew wherefore -his return had been delayed. She -in reply informed him, that he had no -intention of joining them, and even produced -his last cold letter, in which he -told her that she might visit him at Allenwater, -at the end of the month, with the -children, if all continued tranquil in -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_370' href='#Page_370'>370</a></span> -those quarters. She spoke this in an embarrassed -manner; her colour changed -repeatedly; and her whole appearance -was so dissimilar from that to which the -Admiral had been accustomed, that he -could not but observe it. -</p> - -<p> -Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, -repeated the words, “He’ll be -here this week that’s certain,” now addressed -himself to the children, telling -Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps -he’ll bring you toys.” “He’ll bring -himself,” said the child, “and that’s -better.” “Right, my gallant boy,” returned -the Admiral; “and you are a fine -little fellow for saying so.” Thus encouraged, -the child continued to prattle. -“I want no toys now, uncle Richard. -See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will -you look at the impression:—the harp -means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is the -motto; we have no crown; we want no -kings.” “And who gave you this seal?” -said Sir Richard, fiercely. “Clarence -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_371' href='#Page_371'>371</a></span> -Glenarvon,” replied the boy, with a smile -of proud exultation. “D——n your -sword and your seal,” said the Admiral. -“I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he -turned away. “Are you angry with -me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, -child—I have the head ache.” The Admiral -had observed Calantha’s agitation, -and noted the boy’s answers; for he left -the room abruptly, and was cold and -cross the rest of the day. -</p> - -<p> -Colonel Donallan having invited the -whole family and party, to his seat at -Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the -guests now left the castle. It was possibly -owing to this circumstance that -the Admiral, who was not a remarkably -keen observer, had opportunity and -leisure to watch Calantha’s conduct. In -a moment she perceived the suspicion -that occurred; but as he was neither -very refined, nor very sentimental, it -occurred without one doubt of her actual -guilt, or one desire to save her from -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_372' href='#Page_372'>372</a></span> -its consequences:—it occurred with horror, -abhorrence, and contempt. Unable -to conceal the least thing, or to moderate -his indignation, he resolved, without delay, -to seize the first opportunity of taxing -her with her ill conduct. In the meantime -she felt hardened and indifferent; and, -instead of attempting to conciliate, by -haughty looks and a spirit of defiance, -she rendered herself hateful to every -observer. That compassion, which is -sometimes felt and cherished for a young -offender, could not be felt for her; nor -did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and -insensible, she gloried in the cause of -her degradation; and the dread of causing -her aunt’s death, and casting disgrace -upon her husband’s name, alone retained -her one hour from Glenarvon. -</p> - -<p> -On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, -he heard enough concerning Calantha -to excite his most vehement indignation; -and at the hour of dinner, therefore, -as he passed her, he called her by a name -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_373' href='#Page_373'>373</a></span> -too horrible to repeat. Stung to the -soul, she refused to enter the dining-room; -and, hastening with fury to her -own apartment, gave vent to the storm of -passion by which she was wholly overpowered. -There, unhappily, she found -a letter from her lover—all kindness, all -warmth. “One still there is,” she said, -“who loves, who feels for the guilty, -the fallen Calantha.” Every word she -read, and compared with the cold neglect -of others, or their severity and contempt. -There was none to fold her to -their bosom, and draw her back from -certain perdition. She even began to -think with Glenarvon, that they wished -her gone. Some feelings of false honor, -too, inclined her to think she ought to -leave a situation, for which she now must -consider herself wholly unfit. -</p> - -<p> -But there was one voice which still recalled -her:—it was her child’s. “My boy -will awake, and find me gone—he shall -never have to reproach his mother.” And -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_374' href='#Page_374'>374</a></span> -she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, -to her extreme astonishment, was -the only person who interrupted these reflections. -She was the last she had expected -to do so. She had read in the well-known -lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face -which, as a book, she had perused from -infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, -the passionate exhibition of grief -was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. -Seymour’s request, had therefore written -to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. -But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read -this, Lady Avondale,” she said, -and left the room. Calantha never looked -at her, or she might have seen that she -was agitated; but the words—“Read -this, Lady Avondale,” repressed all emotion -in her. It was long before she could -bring herself to open Sophia’s letter. A -servant entered with dinner for her. -“The Admiral begs you will drink a -glass of wine,” he said. She made no -answer; but desired her maid to take it -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_375' href='#Page_375'>375</a></span> -away, and leave her. She did not even -perceive that Mac Allain, who was the -bearer of this message, was in tears. -</p> - -<p> -Sophia’s letter was full of common-place -truisms, and sounding periods—a -sort of treatise upon vice, beginning -with a retrospect of Calantha’s past life, -and ending with a cold jargon of worldly -considerations. A few words, written in -another hand, at the conclusion, affected -her more:—they were from her aunt, Mrs. -Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of -braving misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” -she said: “you do not contemplate, you -cannot conceive, the evils you thus deride. -I know;—yes, well I know, you will not -be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe -me, Calantha, guilt will make the -proudest spirit sink, and your courage -will fail you at the moment of trial. Why -then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, -and it may no longer be permitted -you to return and repent. You now fly -from reflection; but it will overtake you -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_376' href='#Page_376'>376</a></span> -when too late to recall the emotions of -virtue. Ah! remember the days of your -childhood; recollect the high ideas you -had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what -disdain you felt for those -who willingly deviated from the line of -duty:—how true, how noble, how just -were all your feelings. You have forsaken -all; and you began by forsaking -him who created and protected you! -What wonder, then, that having left your -religion and your God, you have abandoned -every other tie that held you back -from evil! Say, where do you mean to -stop? Are you already guilty in more -than thought?—No, no; I will never believe -it; but yet, even if this were so, -pause before you cast public dishonor -upon your husband and innocent children. -Oh! repent, repent, it is not yet -too late.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing -up, and tearing the letter: “it is too -late;” and nearly suffocated with the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_377' href='#Page_377'>377</a></span> -agony of her passionate grief. She gasped -for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I -cannot—I dare not stay to meet the eyes -of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious, -and know that I have betrayed -him. This is too hard to bear:—a death -of torture is preferable to a continuance -of this; and then to part, my aunt knows -not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture -of that word. She never felt what -I do—she knows not what it is to love, -and leave.... These words comprise -every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and -agony. Oh! who can endure it. They -may tear my heart to pieces; but never -hope that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.” -</p> - -<p> -The consciousness of these feelings, the -agitation of her mind, and the dread of -Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet -Sophia, who now entered her apartment -with some coldness. The scene that followed -need not be repeated. All that a -cold and common-place friend can urge, -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_378' href='#Page_378'>378</a></span> -to upbraid, villify and humiliate, was uttered -by Miss Seymour; and all in vain. -She left her, therefore, with much indignation; -and, seeing that her mother was -preparing to enter the apartment she had -quitted: “O! go not to her,” she said; -“you will find only a hardened sinner; -you had best leave her to herself. My -friendship and patience are tired out at -last; I have forborne much; but I can -endure no more. Oh! she is quite -lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” -said Mrs. Seymour, much agitated. -“She is my own sister’s child: -she will yet hear me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, -“my child;” and she clasped -her to her bosom. She would have -turned from her, but she could not. “I -am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant -subject,” she said. “I cannot -speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding -her face, not to behold her aunt: “all I -ask of you is not to hate me; and God -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_379' href='#Page_379'>379</a></span> -reward you for your kindness to me: I -can say no more; but I feel much.” -“You will not leave us, dear child?” -“Never, never, unless I am driven from -you—unless I am thought unworthy of -remaining here.” “You will be kind -to your husband, when he returns—you -will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no: -I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it -upon him; but I cannot see him again; -he must not return: you must keep him -from me. I never....” “Pause, my Calantha: -make no rash resolves. I came -here not to agitate, or to reproach. I ask -but one promise, no other will I ever -exact:—you will not leave us.” This -change of manner in her aunt produced -the deepest impression upon Lady Avondale. -She looked, too, so like her mother, -at the moment, that Calantha thought it -had been her. She gave her her hand: she -could not speak. “And did they tell me -she was hardened?” said Mrs. Seymour. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_380' href='#Page_380'>380</a></span> -“I knew it could not be: my child, my -own Calantha, will never act with cruelty -towards those who love her. Say only -the single words: “I will not leave you,” -and I will trust you without one fear.” -“I will not leave you!” said Calantha, -weeping bitterly, and throwing herself -upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break -my heart, I will never leave you, unless -driven from these doors!” Little more -was said by either of them. Mrs. Seymour -was deeply affected, and so was -Calantha. -</p> - -<p> -After she had quitted her, not an hour -had elapsed, when Sir Richard, without -preparation, entered. His presence stifled -every good emotion—froze up every tear. -Calantha stood before him with a look of -contempt and defiance, he could not bear. -Happily for her, he was called away, and -she retired early to bed. “That wife of -Avondale’s has the greatest share of impudence,” -said the Admiral, addressing the -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_381' href='#Page_381'>381</a></span> -company, at large, when he returned -from her room, “that ever it was my -fortune to meet. One would think, to -see her, that she was the person injured; -and that we were all the agressors. Why, -she has the spirit of the very devil in her! -but I will break it, I warrant you.” -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_382' href='#Page_382'>382</a></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXVIII. -</h2> - - -<p> -The next morning, regardless of the presence -of the nurses and the children, who -were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless -indeed of any consideration, but -that which rage and indignation had justly -excited, the Admiral again entered Calantha’s -room, and in a high exulting tone, -informed her that he had written to hasten -her husband’s return. “As to Avondale, -d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d -fine fellow, with none of your German -sentiments, not he; and he will no more -put up with these goings on, than I shall; -nor shall you pallaver him over: for -depend upon it, I will open his eyes, -unless from this very moment you change -your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you -look a little surprised, I see, at hearing -good English spoken to you; but I am -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_383' href='#Page_383'>383</a></span> -not one who can talk all that jargon of sensibility, -they prate round me here. You -have the road open; you are young, and -may mend yet; and if you do, I will -think no more of the past. And as to -you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green -ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord -Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing -them. I hate these rebellious party -colours. I am for the King, and old England; -and a plague on the Irish marauders, -and my Lord Glenarvon at the head -of them—who will not take ye, let me -tell you, Lady fair, for all your advances. -I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh -too, when the Duke told him to be off, -which he did, though it was in a round -about way; for they like here, to press -much talk into what might be said in a -score of words. So you need not look so -mighty proud; for I shall not let you -stir from these apartments, do you see, -till my nephew comes; and, then, God -mend you, or take you; for we will not -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_384' href='#Page_384'>384</a></span> -bear with these proceedings, not we of -the navy, whatever your land folks may -do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you -may spare yourself and me this unkindness,—I -leave this house immediately,—I -leave your family from this hour; and -I will die in the very streets sooner than -remain here. Take this,” she said throwing -the marriage ring from her hand; -“and tell your nephew I never will see -him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure -that I love another, and had rather be a -slave in his service, than Lord Avondale’s -wife. I ever hated that name, and now -I consider it with abhorrence.” “Your -Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” -cried Sir Richard; “but while this -goodly arm has a sinew and this most -excellent door has a key you shall not -stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he -advanced to the door; but she, darting -before him, with a celerity he had not -expected, left him, exclaiming as she -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_385' href='#Page_385'>385</a></span> -went, “you have driven me to this: tell -them you have done it”.... -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -In vain the Admiral urged every -one he met to pursue Calantha. The -moment had been seized, and no power -can withstand, no after attempt can regain -the one favourable moment that is -thus snatched from fate. The castle presented -a scene of the utmost confusion -and distress. Miss Seymour was indignant; -the servants were in commotion; -the greatest publicity was given to the -event from the ill judged indiscretion of -the Admiral. Mrs. Seymour alone, was -kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in -reply to the enquiry of what was to be -done, affirmed that no step should be -taken unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha -returned to seek the pardon and -protection of those friends whom she had -so rashly abandoned, and so cruelly misused. -Yet, notwithstanding the prohibition -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_386' href='#Page_386'>386</a></span> -every place was searched, every measure -to save was thought of, and all without -success. -</p> - -<p> -Sir Richard then set down with Annabel -in his arms, and the little boy by his -side, crying more piteously than the nurse -who stood opposite encreasing the general -disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed -lamentations. “If my Lord had not -been the best of husbands, there would -have been some excuse for my Lady.” -“None Nurse—none whatever;” sobbed -forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely -audible, between passion and vexation. -“She was a good mother, poor Lady: -that I will say for her.” “She was a -d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; -“and that I must say for her.” After -which, the children joining, the cries and -sobs were renewed by the nurse, and Sir -Richard, with more violence than at first. -“I never thought it would have come to -this,” said the nurse, first recovering. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_387' href='#Page_387'>387</a></span> -“Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, -when I saw those d——d green ribbands”.... -“Who would have thought -such a pretty looking gentleman would -have turned out such a villain!” “He is -no gentleman at all,” said Sir Richard -angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. -Shame upon him.” And then again the -nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he -wept more audibly than before. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you believe it, after all your -kindness,” said Sophia, entering her -mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At -the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. Seymour -fainted; nor did she for some time recover; -but with returning sense, when she saw -not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for -her, she received evasive answers; terror -again overcame her—she was deeply and -violently agitated. She sent for the children; -she clasped them to her bosom. -They smiled upon her; and that look, -was a pang beyond all others of bitterness. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_388' href='#Page_388'>388</a></span> -The Admiral, in tears, approached -her; lamented his interference; yet -spoke with just severity of the offender. -“If I know her heart, she will yet return,” -said Mrs. Seymour. “She will -never more return,” replied Sophia. -“How indeed will she dare appear, after -such a public avowal of her sentiments—such -a flagrant breach of every sacred -duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the -mother who thus abandons her children—for -the wife who stamps dishonour on -a husband’s fame—for the child that -dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” -“Sophia beware. Judge not of others—judge -not; for the hour of temptation -may come to all. Oh judge her not,” -said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; -“for she will yet return.” -</p> - -<p> -Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again -enquired for Calantha. They told her -she had not been heard of; her agitation -proved too well the doubt she entertained. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_389' href='#Page_389'>389</a></span> -“Send again,” she continually said, and -her hand, which Lady Margaret held in -hers, became cold and trembling. They -endeavoured to comfort her; but what -comfort was there left. They tried to -detain her in her own apartment; but -the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her -feeble frame—her wasted form -could ill endure so great a shock. The -Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured -to support her. “Pardon her, -receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. -Seymour, looking at him. “I know she -will not leave you thus: I feel that she -must return.” “We will receive her -without one reproach,” said the Duke. -“I, too, feel secure that she will return.” -“I know her heart: she can never leave -us thus. Go yourself, Altamonte,” said -Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where -would you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” -said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. -“Oh! she is not there,” said the Duke. -<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_390' href='#Page_390'>390</a></span> -“She never will act in a manner we must -not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled -at these words—she was ill, most ill; -and they laid her upon her bed, and -watched in silence and agony around -her. -</p> - -<p> -The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust -she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—<i>all</i> -else I can forgive.” -</p> -</div> - - - -<p class="center p4"> -END OF VOL. II. -</p> - -<hr /> -<p class="center p4 s08"> -LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN,<br /> -13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET.</p> -<hr /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLENARVON, VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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