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....