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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. 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