Calantha imagined, and was repeatedly assured, that her husband neglected
her: the thought gave her pain: she contrasted his apparent coldness and
gravity with the kindness and flattery of others. Even Count Gondimar was
more anxious for her safety, and latterly she observed that he watched
her with increasing solicitude. At a masked ball, in particular, the
Italian Count followed her till she was half offended. “Why do you thus
persecute me as to the frivolity and vanity of my manner? Why do you
seem so infinitely more solicitous concerning me than my husband and my
relations?” she said, suddenly turning and looking earnestly at him. “What
is it to you with whom I may chance to converse? How is it possible that
you can see imperfections in me, when others tell me I am faultless and
delightful?” “And do you believe that the gay troop of flatterers who
now follow you,” said a mask, who was standing near the Count, “do you
believe that they feel any other sentiment for you than indifference?”
“Indifference!” repeated Calantha, “what can you mean? I am secure of
their affection; and I have found more friends in London since I first
arrived there, than I have made in the whole previous course of my life.”
“You are their jest and their derision,” said the same mask.—“Am I,” she
said, turning eagerly round to her partner, Lord Trelawny, “am I your
jest, and your derision?” “You are all that is amiable and adorable,”
he whispered. “Speak louder,” said Lady Avondale, “tell this Italian
Count, and his discourteous friend, what you think of me; or will they
wait to hear, what we all think of them.” Gondimar, offended, left her;
and she passed the night at the ball; but felt uneasy at what she had
said.
Monteagle house, at which the masquerade was given, was large and
magnificent. The folding doors opened into fine apartments, each decorated
with flowers, and filled with masks. Her young friends, Sophia and Lady
Dartford, in the first bloom and freshness of youth, attracted much
admiration. Their dress was alike, and while seeming simplicity was
its greatest charm, every fold, every turn was adapted to exhibit their
figure, and add to their natural grace. If vanity can give happiness to
the heart, how must theirs have exulted; for encomium and flattery was
the only language they heard.
Lady Avondale, in the mean time, fatigued with the ceremonious insipidity
of their conversation, and delighted at having for once escaped from
Count Gondimar, sought in vain to draw her companions into the illuminated
gardens, and not succeeding, wandered into them alone, followed by some
masks in the disguise of gipsies, by whom she was soon surrounded; and
one of them whom she now recognised to be the same who had spoken to her
with Gondimar, now under the pretence of telling her fortune, said to
her every thing that was most severe. “What,” said he, turning to one
of his companions, “do you think of the line in this lady’s hand? It is
a very strange one: I augur no good from it.” The dress of the mask who
spoke was that of a friar, his voice was soft and mournful. “Caprice”
said the young man, whom he addressed: “I read no worse fault. Come,
I will tell her fortune.—Lady, you were born under a favoured planet,”
“Aaron,”—interrupted the first gipsey, “you are a flatterer, and it is
my privilege to speak without disguise. Give me the hand, and I will
shew her destiny.” After pausing a moment, he fixed his dark eyes upon
Calantha, the rest of his face being covered by a cowl, and in a voice
like music, so soft and plaintive begun.—
The task to tell thy fate, be mine,
To guard against its ills, be thine;
For heavy treads the foot of care
On those who are so young and fair.
The star, that on thy birth shone bright,
Now casts a dim uncertain light:
A threatening sky obscures its rays,
And shadows o’er thy future days.
In fashion’s magic circle bound,
Thy steps shall tread her mazy round,
While pleasure, flattery and art,
Shall captivate thy fickle heart.
The transient favorite of a day,
Of folly and of fools the prey;
Insatiate vanity shall pine
As honour, and as health decline,
Till reft of fame, without a friend,
Thou’lt meet, unwept, an early end.
Lady Avondale coloured; and the young man who had accused her of caprice,
watching her countenance, and seeing the pain these acrimonious lines
had given her, reproved the friar “No, no,” he cried “if she must hear
her destiny, let me reveal it.”
The task to tell thy fate, be mine,
And every bliss I wish thee, thine.
So heavenly fair, so pure, so blest,
Admired by all, by all carest.
The ills of life thou ne’er shalt know,
Or weep alone for others woe.
“For the honour of our tribe, cease Aaron” said a female gipsey advancing:
“positively I will not hear any more of this flat parody. The friar’s
malice I could endure; but this will mar all.”—Whatever the female
gipsey might say, Aaron had a certain figure, and countenance which were
sufficiently commanding and attractive. He had disengaged himself from
his companions; and now approached Calantha, and asked her to allow him
to take care of her through the crowd. “This is abominable treachery,”
said the female gipsey:—“this conduct is unpardonable: good faith and
good fellowship were ever our characteristics.” “You should not exert
your power” answered the young man, “against those who seem so little
willing to use the same weapons in return. I will answer for it that,
though under a thousand masks, the lady you have attacked, would never
say an ill natured thing” “Take care of her goodnature then,” said the
gipsey archly:—“it may be more fatal.”
The gipsey then went off, with the rest of her party; but Aaron remained,
and, as if much pleased with the gentleness of Lady Avondale’s behaviour,
followed her. “Who are you?” said she. “I will not take the arm of one
who is ashamed of his name”—“And yet it is only thus unknown, I can
hope to find favour.” “Did I ever see you before?” “I have often had
the happiness of seeing you:—but am I then really so altered?” said
he turning to her, and looking full in her face, “that you cannot even
guess my name?” “Had I ever beheld you before,” answered Lady Avondale,
“I could not have forgotten it.” He bowed with a look of conceit, and
Lady Avondale coloured at his comprehending the compliment, she had
sufficiently intended to make. Smiling at her confusion, he assured her
he had a right to her attention—“_Stesso sangue, Stessa sorte_”—said he
in a low voice.
Calantha could hardly believe it possible:—the words he pronounced were
those inscribed on her bracelet. “And are you my cousin?” said she: “is
it indeed so? no: I cannot believe it.” Buchanan bowed again. “Yes,”
said he; “and a pretty cousin you have proved yourself to me. I had
vowed never to forgive you; but you are much too lovely and too dear
for me to wish to keep my oath.” A thousand remembrances now crowded on
her mind—the days of her infancy—the amusements and occupations of her
childhood; and she looked vainly in Buchanan’s face, for the smallest
traces of the boy she had known so well. Delighted with her evening’s
adventure, and solely occupied with her companion, the masquerade, the
heat and all other annoyances were forgotten, till Lady Dartford being
fatigued, entreated her to retire.
She had conversed during the greater part of the evening with Lord
Dartford. The female gipsey to whose party he belonged, and who had
attacked Lady Avondale, was Lady Margaret Buchanan. He had asked Lady
Dartford many questions about himself, to all of which she had answered
with a reserve that had pleased him, and with a praise so unaffected, so
heartfelt, and so little deserved, that he could not but deeply feel his
own demerit. He did not make himself known, but suffered Lady Margaret
to rally and torment his unoffending wife; asking her repeatedly, why so
pretty, and so young, Lord Dartford permitted her to go to a masquerade
without a protector. “It is,” replied Lady Dartford innocently, “that he
dislikes this sort of amusement, and knows well, that those who appear
unprotected, are sure of finding friends.” At this speech Lady Margaret
laughed prodigiously; and turning to the Friar, who, much disguised,
still followed her, asked him, if he had never seen Lord Dartford at a
masquerade, giving it as her opinion, that he was very fond of this sort
of amusement, and was probably there at that very moment.
In the mean time, Calantha continued to talk with Buchanan, and eagerly
enquired of him who it was who, thus disguised, had with so much acrimony
attacked her. “I do not know the young man,” he answered:—“my mother
calls him Viviani:—he is much with her; but he ever wears a disguise, I
think; for no one sees him; and, except Gondimar, he seems not to have
another acquaintance in England.”
It has been said that the weak-minded are alone attracted by the eye;
and they who say this, best know what they mean. To Calantha it appeared
that the eye was given her for no other purpose than to admire all that
was fair and beautiful. Certain it is, she made that use of her’s; and
whether the object of such admiration was man, woman, or child, horse or
flower, if excellent in its kind, she ever gave them the trifling homage
of her approbation. Her new-found cousin was therefore hailed by her
with the most encouraging smile; and how long she might have listened
to the account he was giving her of his exploits, is unknown, had not
Frances approached her in a hasty manner, and said, “Do come away:—the
strangest thing possible has happened to me:—Lord Trelawney has proposed
to me, and I—I have accepted his offer.” “Accepted his offer!” Calantha
exclaimed, with a look of horror. “Oh, pray, keep my secret till we get
home,” said Frances. “I dare not tell Sophia; but you must break it to
my mother.”
Lord Trelawney was a silly florid young man, who laughed very heartily and
good humouredly, without the least reason. He wore the dress, and had been
received in that class of men, whom Lady Augusta called the exquisites.
He had professed the most extravagant adoration for Lady Avondale, so
that she was quite astonished at his having attached himself so suddenly
to Frances; but not being of a jealous turn, she wished her joy most
cordially, and when she did the same by him,—“Could not help what I’ve
done,” he said, looking tenderly at her through a spying-glass:—“total
dearth of something else to say:—can never affection her much:—but she’s
your cousin, you know:”—and then he laughed.
Lady Avondale prevailed on Frances to keep this important secret from her
mother till morning, as that good lady had not long been in bed, and to
arouse her with such unexpected news at five o’clock had been cruel and
useless. The next morning, long before Lady Avondale had arisen, every
one knew the secret; and very soon after, preparations for the marriage
were made. The young bride received presents and congratulations: her
spirits were exuberant; and her lover, perfect and delightful. Even Lady
Avondale beheld him with new eyes, and the whole family, whenever he was
mentioned, spoke of him as a remarkably sensible young man, extremely
well informed, and possessed of every quality best adapted to ensure
the happiness of domestic life.