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.