It happened one morning that Calantha, having been walking with Lord
Glenarvon, upon her return entered the library rather unexpectedly, and
perceived Zerbellini with the Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret. They
all seemed in some confusion at her entrance. She was however too deeply
occupied with other thoughts to enquire into their strange embarrassment;
and looking at Glenarvon, she watched the varying expression of his
countenance with anxious solicitude. At dinner that day he seated himself
near her. Mrs. Seymour’s eyes were filled with tears. “It is too late,”
he said, in a low whisper: “be firm: it makes me mad to see the arts
that are used to separate us. Speak only to me—think only of me. What
avail their frowns, their reproaches? I am dearer, am I not than all?”
Dinner being over, Calantha avoided her aunt’s presence. She perceived
it, and approaching her, “My child,” she said, “do not fly me. My unhappy
Calantha, you will break my heart, if you act thus.” At that moment Lady
Margaret joined them: “Ask Calantha,” she said, “now ask her about the
pearl necklace.”
The pearl necklace in question was one which Lord Avondale had given
Calantha on the eve of her marriage. She was now accused of having given
it to Lord Glenarvon. It is true that she had placed in his hands all
the jewels of which she was mistress, that his presents might not exceed
in value such as she had power to offer; they had been too magnificent
otherwise for her to receive; and though only dear because they were
his gifts, yet to have taken them without return had been more pain than
pleasure; one smile of his were worth them all—one approving look, far
dearer. This gift of Lord Avondale’s, however, she had considered as
sacred, and neither Lord Glenarvon’s love, nor her own perversion, had
led her to touch it. She had received it when innocent and true; it was
pain to her even to look upon it now; and when she heard the accusation
made against her, she denied it with considerable warmth; for guilt but
irritates the mind, and renders the perpetrator impatient of accusation.
“This indignation is rather ill-timed however,” said Lady Margaret,
sarcastically: “there are things more sacred than pearls thrown away;
and if the necklace has not been given, it is, I believe, the only thing,
that has been retained.”
Such unpleasant conversation was now interrupted by Sophia, who entered
the room.—“The necklace is found,” she said; “and who do you think had
taken it?” “I care not,” said Calantha proud and offended at their former
suspicions. “Zerbellini!” “Oh impossible!” “Some of Lady Margaret’s
servants first suggested the possibility,” said Sophia. “His desk and
wardrobe were consequently examined, and scarce giving credit to the
testimony of their sight, the lost prize was discovered in his silken
vest.” Calantha indignantly resisted the general belief that the boy was
the real culprit. Every one left the room, and eagerly enquired into the
whole affair. “If ocular proof is necessary to convince you,” said Lady
Margaret, returning to Calantha and leading her from the billiard room,
accompanied by many others, “you shall now have it; and see,” she cried,
pausing as she entered the boy’s apartment, “how soundly criminals can
sleep!” “Aye, and how tranquil and innocent they can appear,” continued
Gondimar smiling as he stood by the side of the page’s bed. Glenarvon’s
countenance, rendered more terrible by the glimmering of the lamp,
changed at these words.
There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, lay the youthful Zerbellini, his
cheeks blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing in clusters about his face,
his arms thrown over his head with infantine and playful grace. “If he
be guilty,” said Calantha, looking earnestly at him, “Great God, how
much one may be deceived!” “How much one may be deceived!” said the Duke
turning back and glancing his eye on the trembling form of his daughter.
The necklace was produced: but a look of doubt was still seen on every
countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly approaching Gondimar, asked him
whether some villain might not have placed it there, to screen himself
and to ruin the boy? “I should be loath,” replied the Italian, with an
affectation of humility, “very loath to imagine that such a wretch could
exist.” A glance of bitter scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed.
“We can see the boy, alone, in the morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper
to Calantha; “there is more in this than we know of. Be calm; fear
not, and to-morrow, we can with caution discover all.” “Do not talk of
to-morrow,” replied Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment is too long to
bear injustice. I will plead with my father.” So saying, she followed
him, urging him to hear her. “Consider the youth of the child,” she said,
“even if guilty, remember he is but young.” “His youth but aggravates
the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing her. “When the young can
act basely, it shews that the heart’s core is black. Plead not for him:
look to yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and left her. The time
was past when a prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed in vain; and
struggling with a thousand strong emotions, she fled to her own room,
and gave vent to the contending passions, by which she was so greatly
agitated.
That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt
was now considered as certain. The Duke himself awakening the child,
asked him if he had taken the necklace. He coloured extremely; hid his
face, and then acknowledged the offence. He was questioned respecting
his motive; but he evaded, and would not answer. His doom was fixed.
“I will take him from hence,” said Gondimar. “He must not remain here
a single hour; but no severity shall be shewn to so youthful an offender.”
It was at that dark still hour of the night, when spirits that are
troubled wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, that Lady Margaret
and Count Gondimar, entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if he were
prepared. “For what?” exclaimed the boy, clasping his hands together.
“_Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi!_ Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady
Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are
these your promises—your kindnesses?” “Help me to bear him away,” said
Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If Glenarvon should hear us? and force was
used to bear the struggling boy from the Castle?”
In the morning Calantha was informed, by Lady Margaret, of the whole
transaction. She said, however, that on account of his youth, no other
notice would be taken of his fault, than that of his being immediately
sent back to his parents at Florence.
Calantha was unquiet and restless the whole of the day. “The absence of
your page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, as she passed her, “seems
to have caused you some little uneasiness. Do you expect to find him
in any of these rooms? Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, or the
Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel been examined thoroughly?”
A loud noise and murmur interrupted her. The entrance of the Count
Gondimar, pale and trembling, supported by Lord Glenarvon and a servant,
gave a general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, fiercely glancing his
eyes around, “attacked our carriage, and forced the child from my grasp.”
“Where?—how?” “About twenty miles hence,” said the Italian. “Curse on
the darkness, which prevented my defending myself as I ought.” “Those
honorable wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently that the Count
wrongs himself.” “Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do me a favour. Fly to
the stables; view well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear any appearance
of recent service: I strongly suspect him: and but for his presence
at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, I could have staked my
soul it was by his arm I received these wounds.” “The horse,” said Lord
Trelawny, when he returned, “is sleek and far different from the reeking
steeds that followed with your carriage.” Glenarvon smiled scornfully
on the officious Lord: then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, “I
read your suspicions,” said he in a low voice, as he passed: “they are
just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,”
replied Gondimar, grinding his teeth. “By the murdered....” “Say no more,”
said Glenarvon, violently agitated, while every trembling nerve attested
the agony he endured. “For God’s sake be silent. I will meet you at St.
Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the whole of my conduct, and you
will not find in it aught to give you just offence.” “The ground upon
which you stand has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, with a malicious
smile: “look at your hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and exhausted,
scarce appeared to support himself any longer; but suddenly collecting
all his forces together, with a struggle, which nature seemed scarcely
equal to endure, he sprung upon the Italian, and asked him fiercely the
meaning of his words. Gondimar now, in his turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney
interposed; and peace was apparently restored.