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.