It is dangerous to begin life by surrendering every feeling of the
mind and the heart to any violent passion—Calantha had loved and been
loved to such an excess, that all which followed it appeared insipid.
Vanity might fill the space for a moment, or friendship, or charity,
or benevolence; but still there was something gone which, had it never
existed, had never been missed and required. Lord Avondale was perhaps
more indulgent and more affectionate now, than at first; for a lover
ever plays the tyrant; but even this indulgence was different; and that
look of adoration—that blind devotion—that ardent, constant solitude,
when, without a single profession, one may feel certain of being the
first object in life to the person thus attached,—all this was past.
Such love is not depravity. To have felt it, and to feel it no more, is
like being deprived of the light of the sun, and seeing the same scenes,
which we once viewed brilliant beneath its beams, dark, clouded and
cheerless.—Calantha had given up her heart too entirely to its power,
ever more to endure existence without it. Her home was a desert; her
thoughts were heavy and dull; her spirits and her health were gone; and
even the desire of pleasing, so natural to the vain, had ceased. Whom
was she to wish to please, since Avondale was indifferent? or what to
her was the same, absent and preoccupied.
Such depression continued during the gloomy wintry months; but with the
first warm breeze of spring, they left her; and in the month of May,
she prepared to join the splendid party which was expected at Castle
Delaval—as gay in heart herself as if she had never moralized upon the
perishableness of all human happiness.
Upon a cool and somewhat dreary morning in the month of May, Calantha
left Monteith, and, sleeping one night at Allenwater, hastened to Castle
Delaval, where blazing hearths and joyous countenances, gave her a
cheering welcome. Lady Mandeville and Lady Augusta had, according to
promise, arrived there a week before, to the utter consternation of Mrs.
Seymour. Calantha perceived in one moment, that she was not extremely
well with her or with her cousins upon this account. Indeed the former
scarcely offered her her hand, such a long detail of petty offences had
been registered against her, since they had last parted. It was also
justly imputed to Calantha that Lady Mandeville had been invited to the
Castle. A stately dignity was therefore assumed by Sophia and Mrs. Seymour
on this occasion: they scarce permitted themselves to smile during the
whole time Lady Mandeville remained, for fear, as Calantha concluded,
that Satan, taking advantage of a moment of levity, should lead them
into further evil. The being compelled to live in company with one of
her character, was more than enough.
“I am enraptured at your arrival,” said Lady Augusta, flying towards
Calantha, the moment she perceived her. “You are come at the happiest
time: you will be diverted here in no ordinary manner: the days of
romance, are once again displayed to our wondering view.” “Yes,” said
Lady Trelawney, “not a day passes without an adventure.” Before Calantha
enquired into the meaning of this, she advanced to Lady Mandeville, who,
languidly reclining upon a couch, smiled sweetly on seeing her. Secure
of the impression she had made, she waited to be sought, and throwing
her arm around her, gave her kisses so soft and so tender, that she
could not immediately extricate herself from her embrace.
Lady Augusta, eager to talk, exclaimed—“Did you meet any of the patrole?”
“I was reading the address to the united Irishmen,” said Calantha,
who could hear and think of nothing else. “Are you aware who is the
author?” “No; but it is so eloquent, so animated, I was quite alarmed
when I thought how it must affect the people.” “You shock me, Calantha,”
said Mrs. Seymour. “The absurd rhapsody you mean, is neither eloquent
nor animating: it is a despicable attempt to subvert the government,
a libel upon the English, and a poor piece of flattery to delude the
infatuated malcontents in Ireland.” Lady Augusta winked at Calantha, as
if informing her that she touched upon a sore subject. “The author,” said
Lady Trelawney, who affected to be an enthusiast, “is Lord Glenarvon.”
“I wish Frances,” said Mrs. Seymour, “you would call people by their
right names. The young man you call Lord Glenarvon, has no claim to that
title; his grandfather was a traitor; his father was a poor miserable
exile, who was obliged to enter the Navy by way of gaining a livelihood;
his mother was a woman of very doubtful character (as she said this she
looked towards Lady Mandeville); and this young man, educated nobody knows
how, having passed his time in a foreign country, nobody knows where,
from whence he was driven it seems by his crimes, is now unfortunately
arrived here to pervert and mislead others, to disseminate his wicked
doctrines amongst an innocent but weak people, and to spread the flames
of rebellion, already kindled in other parts of the Island. Oh, he is a
dishonour to his sex; and it makes me mad to see how you all run after
him, and forget both dignity and modesty, to catch a glimpse of him.”
“What sort of looking man is he, dear aunt?” said Calantha.
“Frightful—mean,” said Mrs. Seymour. “His stature is small,” said Lady
Mandeville; “but his eye is keen and his voice is sweet and tunable.
Lady Avondale believe me, he is possessed of that persuasive language,
which never fails to gain upon its hearers. Take heed to your heart:
remember my words,—beware of the young Glenarvon.” Gondimar, after the
first salutation upon entering the room, joined in the conversation; but
he spoke with bitterness of the young Lord; and upon Lady Trelawney’s
attempting to say a few words in his favour, “Hear Sir Everard on this
subject,” said the Count—“only hear what he thinks of him.” “I fear,”
said Sophia, “that all these animadversions will prevent our going
to-morrow, as we proposed, to see the Priory.” “Nothing shall prevent
me,” replied Lady Augusta. “I only beg,” said Mrs. Seymour “that I may
not be of the party, as the tales of horror I have heard concerning the
inhabitants of St. Alvin Priory, from old Lord de Ruthven, at Belfont
Abbey, prevent my having the smallest wish or curiosity to enter its
gates.”
Count Gondimar, now coming towards Calantha, enquired after Zerbellini.
At the request of every one present, he was sent for. Calantha saw a
visible change in Lady Margaret’s countenance, as he entered the room.
“He is the living images”—she murmured, in a low hollow tone—“Of whom?”
said Calantha eagerly.—She seemed agitated and retired. Gondimar in the
evening, took Calantha apart, and said these extraordinary words to her,
“Zerbellini is Lady Margaret and Lord Dartford’s son: treat him according
to his birth; but remember, she would see him a slave sooner than betray
herself: she abhors, yet loves him. Mark her; but never disclose the
secret with which I entrust you.” Astonished, confounded, Calantha now
looked upon the boy with different eyes. Immediately his resemblance to
the family of Delaval struck her—his likeness to herself—his manner so
superior to that of a child in his situation. The long concealed truth,
at once flashed upon her. A thousand times she was tempted to speak upon
the subject. She had not promised to conceal it from Lord Avondale: she
was in the habit of telling him every thing: however she was now for
the first time silent, and there is no more fatal symptom than when an
open communicative disposition grows reserved.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET.