The threatening storm of rebellion now darkened around.—Acts of daily
rapine and outrage alarmed the inhabitants of Ireland, both in the
capital and in the country: all the military forces were increased;
Lord Avondale’s regiment, then at Leitrim, was ordered out on actual
service; and the business of his profession employed every moment of his
time. The vigorous measures pursued, soon produced a favorable change;
tranquillity was apparently restored; and the face of things resumed
its former appearance; but the individual minds that had been aroused
to action were not so easily quieted, and the charms of an active life
were not so readily laid aside. Lord Avondale was still much abroad—much
occupied; and the time hanging heavy upon Calantha’s hands, she was not
sorry to hear that they were going to spend the ensuing winter in London.
In the autumn, previous to their departure for England, they passed a
few weeks at Castle Delaval, chiefly for the purpose of meeting Lady
Margaret Buchanan who had till then studiously avoided every occasion
of meeting Lady Avondale. Buchanan had neither seen her nor sent her
one soothing message since that event, so angry he affected to be, at
what, in reality, gave him the sincerest delight.
Count Gondimar had returned from Italy, and was now at the castle. He
had brought letters from Viviani to Lady Margaret, who said at once when
she had read them: “You wish to deceive me. These letters are dated
from Naples, but our young friend is here—here even in Ireland.” “And
his vengeance,” said Gondimar, laughing. Lady Margaret affected, also,
to smile:—“Oh, his vengeance!” she said, “is yet to come:—save me from
his love now; and I will defend myself from the rest.”
Lord and Lady Dartford were, likewise, at the castle. He appeared
cold and careless. In his pretty inoffensive wife, he found not those
attractions, those splendid talents which had enthralled him for so long
a period with Lady Margaret. He still pined for the tyranny of caprice,
provided the load of responsibility and exertion were removed: and the
price of his slavery were that exemption from the petty cares of life,
for which he felt an insurmountable disgust. From indolence, it seemed
he had fallen again into the snare which was spread for his ruin; and
having, a second time, submitted to the chain, he had lost all desire
of ever again attempting to shake it. Lady Dartford, too innocent to see
her danger, lamented the coldness of her husband, and loved him with even
fonder attachment, for the doubt she entertained of his affection. She
was spoken of by all with pity and praise: her conduct was considered as
examplary, when, in fact, it was purely the effect of nature; for every
hope of her heart was centered in one object, and the fervent constancy
of her affection arose, perhaps, in some measure from the uncertainty
of its being returned. Lady Margaret continued to see the young Count
Viviani in secret:—he had now been in Ireland for some months:—his
manner to Lady Margaret was, however, totally changed:—he had accosted
her, upon his arrival, with the most distant civility, the most studied
coldness:—he affected ever that marked indifference which proved him
but still too much in her power; and, while his heart burned with the
scorching flames of jealousy, he waited for some opportunity of venting
his desire of vengeance, which, from its magnitude, might effectually
satisfy his rage.
Lord Dartford saw him once as he was retiring in haste from Lady
Margaret’s apartment; and he enquired of her eagerly who he was.—“A young
musician, a friend of Gondimar’s, an Italian,” said Lady Margaret. “He
has not an Italian countenance,” said Lord Dartford, thoughtfully. “I
wish I had not seen him:—it is a face which makes a deep and even an
unpleasant impression. You call him Viviani, do you?—whilst I live, I
never shall forget Viviani!”
Cards, billiards and music, were the usual nightly occupations. Sir
Everard St. Clare and the Count Gondimar sometimes entered into the
most tedious and vehement political disputes, unless when Calantha
could influence the latter enough to make him sing, which he did in
an agreeable, though not in an unaffected manner. At these times,
Mrs. Seymour, with Sophia and Frances, unheeding either the noise or
the gaiety, eternally embroidered fancy muslins, or, with persevering
industry, painted upon velvet. Calantha mocked at these innocent
recreations. “Unlike music, drawing and reading, which fill the mind,”
she said;—“unlike even to dancing which, though accounted an absurd mode
of passing away time, is active and appears natural to the human form
and constitution.”
“Tell me Avondale,” Calantha would say, “can any thing be more tedious
than that incessant irritation of the fingers—that plebian, thrifty and
useless mode of increasing in women a love of dress—a selfish desire
of adorning their own persons?—I ever loathed it.—There is a sort
of self-satisfaction about these ingenious working ladies, which is
perfectly disgusting. It gratifies all the little errors of a narrow
mind, under the appearance of a notable and domestic turn. At times,
when every feeling of the heart should have been called forth, I have
seen Sophia examining the patterns of a new gown, and curiously noting
every fold of a strangers dress. Because a woman who, like a mechanic,
has turned her understanding, and hopes, and energies, into this course,
remains uninjured by the storms around her, is she to be admired?—must
she be exalted?” “It is not their occupation, but their character, you
censure:—I fear, Calantha, it is their very virtue you despise.” “Oh no!”
she replied, indignantly: “when real virtue, struggling with temptations
of which these senseless, passionless creatures have no conception,
clinging for support to Heaven, yet preserves itself uncorrupted amidst
the vicious and the base, it deserves a crown of glory, and the praise and
admiration of every heart. Not so these spiritless immaculate prejudiced
sticklers for propriety. I do not love Sophia:—no, though she ever affords
me a cold extenuation for my faults—though through life she considers me
as a sort of friend whom fate has imposed upon her through the ties of
consanguinity. I did not—could not—cannot love her; but there are some,
far better than herself, noble ardent characters, unsullied by a taint
of evil; and I think, Avondale, without flattery, you are in the list,
that I would die to save; that I would bear every torture and ignominy,
to support and render happy.”—“Try then my Calantha,” said Lord Avondale,
“to render them so; for, believe me, there is no agony so great as to
remember that we have caused one moment’s pang to such as have been kind
and good to us.” “You are right,” said Calantha, looking upon him with
affection.
Oh! if there be a pang of heart too terrible to endure and to imagine,
it would be the consideration that we have returned unexampled kindness,
by ingratitude, and betrayed the generous noble confidence that trusted
every thing to our honour and our love. Calantha had not, however,
this heavy charge to answer for at the time in which she spoke, and her
thoughts were gay, and all those around seemed to share in the happiness
she felt.
Lord Avondale one day reproved Calantha for her excessive love of
music.—“You have censured work,” he said, “imputed to it every evil, the
cold and the passionless can fall into:—I now retort your satire upon
music.” Some may smile at this; but had not Lord Avondale’s observation
more weight than at first it may appear. Lady Avondale often rode to
Glanaa to hear Miss St. Clare sing. Gondimar sung not like her; and
his love breathing ditties went not to the heart, like the hymns of the
lovely recluse. But for the deep flushes which now and then overspread
St. Clare’s cheeks, and the fire which at times animated her bright dark
eye, some might have fancied her a being of a purer nature than our
own—one incapable of feeling any of the fierce passions that disturb
mankind; but her voice was such as to shake every fibre of the heart,
and might soon have betrayed to an experienced observer the empassioned
violence of her real character.
Sir Everard, who had one day accompanied Calantha to the convent, asked
his niece in a half serious, half jesting manner, concerning her gift
of prophecy. “Have not all this praying and fasting, cured you of it,
my little Sybel?” he said.—“No,” replied the girl; “but that which you
are so proud of, makes me sad:—it is this alone which keeps me from the
sports which delight my companions:—it is this which makes me weep when
the sun shines bright in the clear heavens, and the bosom of the sea
is calm.”—“Will you shew us a specimen of your art?” said Sir Everard,
eagerly.—Miss St. Clare coloured, and smiling archly at him, “The
inspiration is not on me now, uncle,” she said; “when it is, I will send
and let you know.”—Calantha embraced her, and returned from her visit
more and more enchanted with her singular acquaintance.