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.