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.