No one had apparently observed Lady Avondale’s feigned indisposition
that evening—feigned, indeed, it was not; no one soothed her during her
sleepless night; and in the morning when she awoke, at an early hour,
Lord Avondale asked her not the cause of her disquiet. She arose and
descended upon the terrace:—her steps involuntarily led her to the banks
of the Elle. The flowers, fresh with dew, sparkled in the sunshine, and
scented the soft morning air. She hurried on, regardless of the distance.
The rose he had given her was faded; but its leaves were preserved by
her with fondest care.
Whilst yet she walked, at a little distance she perceived Gondimar,
and was in consequence preparing to return, when he abruptly accosted
her; and with a manner too little respectful, rudely seized her hand.
“Have you not slept?” he cried, “my charming, my adored young friend,
that you are thus early in your walk; or did you imagine that others,
beside myself would wander upon these banks, and await your fairy step?
O suffer one who admires—who loves, to open his heart to you—to seize
this opportunity.” ... “Leave me—approach me not. What have I done to
deserve this from you?” she exclaimed. “Why seize my hand by force?
Why press it—oh God! to those detested lips? Leave me, Count Gondimar:
forget not the respect due to every woman.” “Of virtue!” he replied,
with a scornful smile. “But tell me, has Lady Avondale never suffered
such insults from some who have no better claim? Has she still a right
to this amazing mockery of respect? Ah! trust me, we cannot command our
love.” “Neither can we command our abhorrence—our disgust,” she exclaimed,
breaking from his grasp and hastening away.
As Calantha re-entered the Castle, she met Lady Margaret and Glenarvon,
who appeared surprised and disconcerted at seeing her. “Has Count
Gondimar been speaking to you upon any subject of importance?” said
Lady Margaret in a whisper, trying to conceal a look of suspicion, and
some embarrassment. Before Calantha could answer, he had joined them;
and explaining fully that their meeting had been entirely accidental,
they both walked off together apparently in earnest discourse, leaving
Lord Glenarvon and Lady Avondale together. Calantha’s heart was full,
she could not speak, she therefore left him in haste and when alone she
wept. Had she not reason; for every indignity and grief was falling fast
upon her. She could not tell what had occurred to Lord Avondale—he had a
fierce and dangerous spirit; and to Glenarvon she would not, upon every
account. Glenarvon awaited her return with anxiety. “I was surprised
to see you with my aunt,” she said, “what could you be saying to her.”
He evaded the question, and tenderly enquired of her the cause of her
uneasiness and tears. He loved beyond a doubt—at least he convinced
Calantha that he did so.
Confused, perturbed, she, more than ever felt the danger of her situation:
trembling she met his eyes, fearing lest he should penetrate her secret.
Confident in her own strength: “I will fly,” she said “though it be to
the utmost extremity of the earth; but I will never yield—never betray
myself. My fate is sealed—misery must, in future, be my portion; but no
eye shall penetrate into the recesses of my heart.—none shall share my
distress, or counsel me in my calamity.” Thus she reasoned; and struggling
as she thought, against her guilty passion, by attempting to deceive
the object of her devotion, she in reality yielded herself entirely to
his power, self deluded and without controul.
How new to her mind appeared the fever of her distracted thoughts! Love
she had felt—unhappy love, she had once for a time experienced; but no
taint of guilt was mingled with the feeling; and the approach to vice
she started from with horror and alarm. Lord Glenarvon had succeeded too
well—she had seen him—she had heard him too often; she fled in vain:
he read his empire in the varying colour of her cheeks; he traced his
power in every faltering word, in every struggling sigh: that strange
silence, that timid air, that dread of beholding him—all confirmed, and
all tempted him forward to pursue his easy prey. “She is mine,” he cried
exultingly,—“mine, too, without a struggle,—this fond wife, this chaste
and pure Calantha. Wherever I turn, new victims fall before me—they
await not to be courted.”
But Lord Glenarvon had oftentimes said, that he never again could feel
affection for any woman. How then was the interest he shewed Calantha to
be accounted for? What name was he to give it? It was the attachment of
a brother to the sister whom he loved: it was all devotion—all purity;
he would never cherish a thought that might not be heard in heaven, or
harbour one wish detrimental to the happiness of his friend. This was
said, as it often has been said: both felt that it was false; but both
continued to repeat, what they wished to believe possible. His health
and spirits had much declined; he looked as if sorrows, which he durst
not utter, afflicted his heart; and though, in the presence of others
he affected gaiety, when alone with Calantha he did not disguise his
sadness. She sought to console him: she was grave—she was gentle, she
could be both; and the occasion seemed to call for her utmost kindness.
He spoke much to her; and sometimes read as Lord Avondale once had done;
and none ever but Lord Avondale read as well. His tears flowed for the
sorrows of those whose poetry and history he repeated. Calantha wept
also; but it was for Glenarvon, that she mourned. When he had ended the
tale of love and sorrow, his eyes met hers and they spoke more—far more
than words. Perhaps he generously resolved to contend against his own
feelings; even at times he warned her of her danger.—But, when he bade
her fly him, he held her hand, as if to detain her; and when he said
the passion he cherished would cause the misery of both, he acknowledged
that her presence alleviated his sufferings, and that he could not bear
to see hers less.