From the night of the masquerade, Lady Avondale dared hardly confess to
herself, how entirely she found her thoughts engrossed by Buchanan. She
met him again at a ball. He entreated her to let him call on her the
ensuing day:—he said he had much to tell her:—his manner was peculiar;
and his eyes, though not full of meaning in general, had a certain look
of interest that gratified the vainest of human hearts. “I shall be
at home till two,” said Calantha. “I shall be with you at twelve,” he
answered.—Late as the hour of rest might appear to some, Calantha was
up, and attired with no ordinary care to receive him, at the time he
had appointed. Yet no Buchanan came.—Oh! could the petty triflers in
vanity and vice, know the power they gain, and the effect they produce
by these arts, they would contemn the facility of their own triumph.
It is ridiculous to acknowledge it, but this disappointment increased
Calantha’s anxiety to see him to the greatest possible degree: she scarce
could disguise the interest it created.
Gondimar unfortunately called at the moment when Calantha was most
impatient and irritable. “You expected another,” he said sarcastically;
“but I care not. I came not here in the hope of pleasing Lady Avondale.
I came to inform her.”—“I cannot attend now.” “Read this letter,” said
Gondimar. Calantha looked carelessly upon it—it was from himself:—it
contained an avowal of attachment and of interest for her; in proof
of which he asked permission to offer her a gift, which he said he was
commissioned to bring her from Italy. Lady Avondale returned the letter
coldly, and with little affectation of dignity, declined the intended
present. It is so easy to behave well, when it is our pleasure to do so,
as well as our duty. Gondimar, however, gave her but little credit for
her conduct. “You like me not?” he said. “Do you doubt my virtue?” she
replied eagerly. “Aye, Lady—or, at all events, your power of preserving
it.”
Whilst Gondimar yet spoke, Buchanan galopped by the window, and stopped
at the door of the house. His hands were decorated with rings, and a
gold chain and half-concealed picture hung around his neck:—his height,
his mustachios, the hussar trappings of his horse, the high colour in
his cheek, and his dark flowing locks, gave an air of savage wildness to
his countenance and figure, which much delighted Calantha. He entered
with familiar ease; talked much of himself, and more of some of his
military friends; stared at Gondimar, and then shook hands with him. After
which, he began a vehement explanation of his conduct respecting Alice;
assuring Calantha upon his honour—upon his soul, that he had no hand in
her elopement. He then talked of Ireland; described the dreadful, the
exaggerated accounts of what had occurred there; and ended by assuring
Gondimar that the young Glenarvon was not dead, but was at this time at
Belfont, concealed there with no other view than that of heading the
rebels. The accounts which the Duke of Altamonte had received in part
corroborated Buchanan’s statement.
Calantha listened, however, with more interest to the accounts Buchanan
now gave; and as he said he was but just returned from Dublin, even
Gondimar thought the news which he brought worthy of some attention.
“Send that damned Italian away,” said Buchanan in a loud whisper—“I have
a million of things to tell you. If you keep him here, I shall go:—my
remaining will be of no use.” Unaccustomed to curb herself in the least
wish, Calantha now whispered to Gondimar, that she wished him to leave
her, as she had something very particular to say to her cousin; but he
only smiled contemptuously upon him, and sternly asking her, since when
this amazing intimacy had arisen—placed himself near the pianoforte,
striking its chords with accompaniments till the annoyance was past
bearing.
Buchanan consoled himself by talking of his dogs and horses; and having
given Calantha a list of the names of each, began enumerating to her the
invitations he had received for the ensuing week. Fortunately, at this
moment, a servant entered with a note for Gondimar. “Does the bearer
wait?” he exclaimed with much agitation upon reading it; and immediately
left the room.
Upon returning home, Count Gondimar perceived with surprise, in the place
of the person he had expected, one of the attendants of the late Countess
of Glenarvon,—a man whose countenance and person he well remembered
from its peculiarly harsh and unpleasant expression.—“Is my young Lord
alive?” said the man in a stern manner. Count Gondimar replied in the
negative. “Then, Sir, I must trouble you with those affairs which most
nearly concern him.” “Your name, I think is Macpherson?” said Count
Gondimar. “You lived with the Countess of Glenarvon.” The man bowed,
and giving a letter into the hands of the Count, “I am come from Italy
at this time,” he replied, “in search of my late master—La Crusca and
myself.” “Is La Crusca with you?” said Gondimar starting. “The letter
will inform you of every particular,” replied the man with some gravity.
“I shall wait for the child, or your farther orders.” Saying this, he
left the Count’s apartment; and returned into the anti-chamber, where
a beautiful little boy was waiting for him.
On that very evening, after a long conversation with Macpherson, Count
Gondimar again sought Calantha at her father’s house, where, upon
enquiring for her, he was immediately admitted. After some little
hesitation, he told her that he had brought her the present of which he
had made mention in his letter; that if she had the unkindness to refuse
it, some other perhaps would take charge of it:—it was a gift which,
however unworthy he was to offer it, he thought would be dearer in her
estimation than the finest jewels, and the most costly apparel:—it was a
fair young boy, he said, fitted to be a Lady’s page, and trained in every
cunning art his tender years could learn. “He will be a play mate;” he
said smiling, “for your son, and when,” added he in a lower voice, “the
little Mowbrey can speak, he will learn to lisp in that language which
alone expresses all that the heart would utter—all that in a barbarous
dialect it dares not—must not say.”
As he yet spoke, he took the hat from off Zerbellini’s head, and gently
pushing him towards Calantha, asked him to sue for her protection. The
child immediately approached, hiding himself with singular fear from
the caresses of the Count. “Zerbellini,” said Gondimar in Italian, “will
you love that lady?” “In my heart;” replied the boy, shrinking back to
Calantha, as if to a late found but only friend. Sophia was called, and
joined in the general interest and admiration the child excited. Frances
shewed him to Lord Trelawney, who laughed excessively at beholding him.
Lady Margaret, who was present, looking upon him stedfastly, shrunk as
if she had seen a serpent in her way, and then recovering herself, held
her hand out towards him. Zerbellini fixed his eyes on Calantha, as if
watching in her countenance for the only commands which he was to obey;
and when she drew him towards her aunt, he knelt to her, and kissed her
hand with the customary grace and courtesy of an Italian.
From that day Calantha thought of nothing but Zerbellini. He was a new
object of interest:—to dress him, to amuse him, to shew him about, was
her great delight. Wherever she went he must accompany her: in whatever
she did or said, Zerbellini must bear a part. The Duke of Myrtlegrove
advised her to make him her page; and for this purpose he ordered him
the dress of an Eastern slave. Buchanan gave him a chain with a large
turquoise heart; and as he placed it around the boy, he glanced his eye
on Calantha. Presents, however, even more magnificent were in return
immediately dispatched by her to the Duke, and to Buchanan.
Count Gondimar read the letters Calantha had written with the gifts; for
she had left them, as was her custom, open upon the table. All she wrote,
or received, were thus left; not from ostentation, but indifference and
carelessness. “Are you mad,” said the Italian “or worse than mad?” “I
affect it not,” replied Lady Avondale. “I conclude, therefore that it is
real.” Indeed there was a strange compound in Calantha’s mind. She felt
but little accountable for her actions, and she often had observed that
if ever she had the misfortune to reflect and consequently to resolve
against any particular mode of conduct, the result was that she ever
fell into the error she had determined to avoid. She might indeed have
said that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak; for whatever
she resolved, upon the slightest temptation to the contrary, she failed
to execute.