From that day, Lady Avondale grew more calm; a degree of offended pride
supported her; and she resolved, cost what it might, to continue firm.
She saw, that private communications were taking place between Lady
Margaret, her Father, and even her Aunt and Glenarvon. He had already
contrived to interest every individual in the castle in his affairs.—Lord
Avondale often spoke of him with praise; Sir Richard, though he said he
was a comical personage, admired him, and the female part of the society
were all eager and enthusiastic about him.
Lady Avondale experienced every feeling that can be imagined during this
short period; and received the half concealed taunts of her acquaintance
With becoming fortitude—even their commiseration for his having left her.
She heard their boasts too of what he had written to them, without once
repining; but envy, rancour, malice, hatred, rage and regret—all, more
or less, arose and subsided in her breast, till she heard one morning,
with a sort of trepidation, that Lord Glenarvon was in the adjoining
room. Mrs. Seymour immediately came to her. “Tell me truly,” she said,
“have you any objection to his dining here?” “Quite the contrary”, said
Calantha, with indifference; and she waited till she heard the sound
of the horses galloping from the outer court; she then looked from the
window, and her heart told her too well that she was not yet entirely
recovered from her infatuation.
At dinner they were to expect him; and ’till dinner Lady Avondale
could think of nothing else. Mrs. Seymour watched her with anxiety.—She
affected all things, to disguise what she felt, and she did it better
than before, for habit now rendered the effort less painful. But Lady
Margaret, laughing at her, whispered maliciously in her ear, that every
thought and feeling, was more strongly exhibited by her, with all her
attempts to hide them than by most others, when they wished them to be
seen. “And I know,” she added, unkindly enough, “you would give any thing
on earth to be friends with him again.” “With who?” “See he appears,”
she said, “shall I name him?”
Lady Avondale had resolved to be firm. There is a degree of dignity,
which every proud mind can assume. To have forgiven so much treachery
and cruelty, had been contemptible. She felt it, and prepared for the
encounter. “He will do every thing to regain you,” said Mrs. Seymour,
“but I have confidence in your present feelings. Shew him, that you are
not what he imagines; and prove to me, that I may still be proud of my
child.” Lady Avondale had taken Glenarvon’s ring from her finger, she
had placed upon her neck a row of pearls her husband had given her, upon
the eve of her marriage, and thus decorated, she thought her heart had
likewise returned to its ancient allegiance.
Lady Avondale entered the dining-room. Lord Glenarvon passed her at the
moment; he was in earnest conversation with Lady Margaret, and slightly
bowed to her. She was surprised, she had expected kindness and contrition.
She was, however, resolved to act up to the very strictest bounds which
decorum prescribed. With some haughtiness, some appearance at least of
dignity, she seated herself as far from him as he could desire, and by
addressing herself calmly but entirely to others, she sought to attain
that look of unconcern, which he had so readily assumed.
Dinner was no sooner over than unable any longer to conceal her vexation,
Lady Avondale retired to her room to compose herself. Upon returning, the
large society were employed either with billiards, cards, or work—except
a few of the men, amongst whom she perceived Lord Glenarvon. Had he
refrained from speaking to her, she could have borne it,—had he even
looked as grave, as ill as usual; but an unusual flow of spirits—a
peculiar appearance of health, had taken place of that customary languor,
to which he was at times subject.
The evening and the supper passed without his saying one word in
apology for his unkindness, or in the least attending to her increasing
irritation. Lady Avondale affected unconcern as well as she could,
but it looked like any thing else; and in the morning she awoke but to
suffer new humiliations. She saw him smile as he named her in a whisper
to Lady Trelawney. She heard him talk to others upon subjects he had
once spoken of only to herself. Immediately upon this apparent rupture,
new hopes arose; new claims were considered; and that competition for
his favour, which had ceased, began again. Lady Trelawney laughed and
talked with him; at times turning her eye triumphantly towards Calantha.
Sophia confided her opinions to his breast; affected to praise him for
his present conduct, and the tear of agony, which fell from Calantha’s
eye, excited the indignation it deserved.
“I have sacrificed too much for one who is heartless,” she said; “but,
thank God it is yet time for amendment.” Alas! Lady Avondale knew not,
as she uttered these words, that there is no moment in which it is so
difficult to act with becoming dignity and firmness, as that in which we
are piqued and trampled upon by the object of our devotion. Glenarvon
well knew this, and smiled at the pang he inflicted, as it proved his
power, and exhibited its effects to all. Lady Avondale summoned to her
aid even her faults—the spirit, the pride of her character, her very
vanity; and rested her hopes of firmness upon her contempt for weakness,
her abhorrence of vice. She looked upon him, and saw his attempts to
wound, to humiliate, to grieve; and she despised the man who could have
recourse to every petty art to torture one for whom he had professed so
much. If he wished to expose her weakness to every eye, too well he had
succeeded.