A few days previous to this quarrel and reconciliation, Sir Everard St.
Clare had been thrown from his horse in consequence of a tumult, in which
having beheld his niece and a dimness coming over his eyes, he was no
longer able to support himself. The fall was said to have injured his
spine. He was confined to his own room; but no one could prevail upon
him to lie upon his bed, or admit Lady St. Clare, who sat continually
sobbing at his door, lamenting her conduct and imploring his pardon.
Whatever were the sufferings of Lady Avondale’s mind at this time, she
yet resolved to visit this afflicted family, as she had a real regard for
the doctor in spite of his singularities. She was preparing therefore
the ensuing day, to call upon him, when a servant informed her that a
young gentleman below desired to speak with her. Her heart beat upon
hearing the name Clarence of Costolly: but upon entering the room she
soon discovered, in the personage before her, the doctor’s unhappy niece,
Elinor, upon whom every counsel was lost—every menace and punishment
powerless.
Elinor had entered the castle with a look of bold defiance; yet her
lips trembled, as she twice vainly attempted to address Lady Avondale,
who moved forward to enquire the cause of her visit. “I am come,” said
Miss St. Clare with haughty insolence, “to ask a favour of you—tell me
shall it be granted? my uncle is ill: he has sent to see me. This may
be a mere feint to draw me into his power. I will trust myself with no
one but you:—if you will engage for me, that I shall not be detained,
I will go to him; if not, come what will, I will never more set foot
into his house.” “Your having listened to the prayers of Sir Everard,”
answered Lady Avondale eagerly, “is a proof to me that you have a kind
heart, and you are so young, that I feel sure, oh most sure, that you
will return to a more virtuous course.” “To virtue!” said Elinor with
a smile of scorn “never—never.”
As she spoke, a letter dropped from her bosom. Lady Avondale saw from
the superscription—the name of Glenarvon. Her heart sickened at the
sight; she tried to conceal her emotion; but she had not yet learned
sufficiently how to dissemble. Elinor, with ill suppressed rage, watched
Lady Avondale: she could scarcely stand the fury of her glance, when
in a voice, nearly choked with passion, “take it,” she said, throwing
the letter to her. “Yes, you shall give it him—give it to your lover. I
would have hated you, I would have injured you; but I cannot. No wonder
he admires you: I could myself; but I am miserable.” Lady Avondale
raised her eyes; every fierce expression had left Elinor’s countenance:
with a subdued, and mournful air, she turned aside as if ashamed of the
weakness she had shewn; then, taking a little miniature and chain from
her neck, “he sent for this too,” she cried. “He sent for all he gave
me, to offer to his new idol. Take it then, lady; and tell him I obeyed
his last command.”
A tear dimmed for a moment her eye; recovering herself, “he has not
power,” she cried, “to break a heart like mine. ’Tis such as you, may die
for love—I have yet many years to live.” Lady Avondale sprang forward to
return the picture—the letter; but St. Clare, with a precipitancy she
was not prepared for, had left her; Lady Avondale arrived at the door
of the Castle only in time to see her gallop off.
While she was yet holding the letter and picture in her hand, Glenarvon
was announced. He looked at both without exhibiting any symptom of
surprise, and having read the letter, shewed it to Calantha. It greatly
shocked her. “I am so used,” said he smiling, “to these scenes, that they
have lost all power with me.” “Unhappy Elinor,” said Lady Avondale. “In
good truth,” said Glenarvon “you may spare your pity, Calantha: the lady
has spirit enough: it is her lover who ought to claim compassion.” “Now
do not frown,” said he, “or reproach, or torment me about her. I know it
was wrong first to take her with me—it was wrong to see her since; but
never more, you may rely upon it, shall I transgress; and if you knew
all, you would not blame me. She absolutely forced herself upon me. She
sat at my door, and wept when I urged her to return home. What could I
do: I might have resisted.—Calantha, when passion is burning in every
vein—when opportunity is kind—and when those who from the modesty of
their sex ought to stand above us and force us from them, forget their
dignity and sue and follow us, it is not in man’s nature to resist. Is
it in woman’s?” he continued smiling archly.
“I blame you not,” she replied; “but I pity her. Yet wherefore not
shew her some little kindness!” “A look, a word would bring her back
to me. She misrepresents every thing: she deceives herself.” “Love is
ever apt to do so.” “Oh! my adored Calantha, look not thus on me. You
are not like this wretched girl: there is nothing feminine, or soft, or
attractive in her; in you there is every charm.” “You loved her once,”
said Calantha. “It was passion, phrenzy, it was not love—not what I feel
for my Calantha.” “As you regard me, be kind to her.” “I was very kind
once, was I not?” “Oh not in that manner—not so.” “How then my soul?
explain yourself; you shall instruct me.” “Counsel her to repent.” “From
the lips that first taught her to err, how will such counsel prevail?”
“Why take your picture from her?” “To give it to the only friend I have
left.” “I shall send it her again.” “She will only laugh at you.” “I had
rather be the cause of her laughter, than of her tears.” “Fear not: she
is not prone to weeping; but perhaps,” he continued in a tone of pique,
“you would wish to give _me_ back also, as well as the portrait.” “Oh
never—never.” This was Lady Avondale’s answer; and Lord Glenarvon was
satisfied.