On quitting Castle Delaval, Lord Glenarvon went as he had promised,
to Mr. Monmouth’s seat in Wales, by name, Mortanville Priory.
There, in a large and brilliant society, he soon forgot Calantha.
Lady Augusta rallied him for his caprice; Lady Mandeville sought to
obtain his confidence: tears and reproaches are ever irksome; and
the confidence that had once been placed in a former mistress, now
suddenly withdrawn, was wholly given to her. A petitioner is at all
times intrusive; and sorrow at a distance but serves to encrease the
coldness and inconstancy it upbraids. The contrast is great between
smiling and triumphant beauty, and remorse, misery and disgrace.
And, if every reason here enumerated were insufficient, to account
for a lover’s inconstancy, it is enough in one word to say, that
Lady Avondale was absent; for Lord Glenarvon was of a disposition to
attend so wholly to those, in whose presence he took delight, that he
failed to remember those to whom he had once been attached; so that
like the wheels of a watch, the chains of his affections might be said
to unwind from the absent, in proportion as they twined themselves
around the favourite of the moment; and being extreme in all things,
he could not sufficiently devote himself to the one, without taking
from the other all that he had given.
’Twere vain to detail the petty instances of barbarity he made use
of. The web was fine enough, and wove with a skilful hand. He even
consulted with Lady Mandeville in what manner to make his inhuman
triumph more poignant—more galling; and when he heard that Calantha
was irritated even unto madness, and grieved almost unto death, he only
mocked at her for her folly, and despised her for her still remaining
attachment to himself. “Indeed she is ill,” said Sophia, in answer to
his insulting enquiry, soon after her arrival at Mortanville Priory.
“She is even dangerously ill.” “And pray may I ask of what malady?”
he replied, with a smile of scorn. “Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she
answered with equal irony, “which never will endanger your health—of
a broken heart.” He laughed. “Of deep remorse,” she continued. “And no
regret?” said he, looking archly at her. “Do not jest,” she retorted:
“the misery which an unhallowed attachment must in itself inflict,
is sufficient, I should think, without adding derision to every other
feeling.” “Does Miss Seymour speak from experience or conjecture?”
Before Miss Seymour could answer, Lady Mandeville, who was present,
whispered something to Glenarvon; and he laughed. Sophia asked eagerly
what she was saying. “It is a secret,” said Glenarvon significantly.
“How happy must Lady Mandeville be at this moment!” said Lady Augusta,
“for every one knows that the greatest enjoyment the human mind can
feel, is when we are in the act of betraying a secret confided to us
by a friend, or informing an enemy of something upon which the life
and safety of another depends.” “Come,” said Lady Mandeville, “you
are very severe; but I was only urging Lord Glenarvon to listen to
Miss Seymour’s admonitions in a less public circle. Miss Monmouth
may be displeased if she hears of all this whispering.” So saying,
she took Glenarvon’s arm, and they walked out of the room together.
“After all, he is a glorious creature,” said Lady Trelawney. “I wish
I had a glorious creature to walk with me this morning,” said Lady
Augusta with a sneer; “but how can I hope for support, when Calantha,
who had once thousands to defend her, and whom I left the gayest where
all were gay, is now dying alone, upbraided, despised, and deserted.
Where are her friends?” “She fell by her own fault entirely,” said
Lord Trelawney. “Her life has been one course of absurdity. A crime
here and there are nothing, I well know,” said Lady Augusta; “but
imprudence and folly, who can pardon?” “She has a kind heart,” said
Frances. “Kind enough to some,” said her lord; “but talk not of her,
for I feel indignant at her very name.” “There is nothing excites our
indignation so strongly,” said Lady Augusta, “as misfortune. Whilst
our friends are healthy, rich, happy, and, above all, well dressed
and gaily attended, they are delightful, adorable. After all, your
sensible judicious people on the long run are the best: they keep a
good eye to their own interest; and these flighty ones are sure to
get into scrapes. When they do, we flatterers have an awkward part to
play: we must either turn short about, as is the case now, or stand
up in a bad cause, for which none of us have heart or spirit.” “There
is no excuse for Calantha,” said Miss Seymour. “God forbid I should
look for one,” said Lady Augusta. “I am like a deer, and ever fly
with the herd: there is no excuse, Miss Seymour, ever, for those who
are wounded and bleeding and trodden upon. I could tell you—but here
come these glorious creatures! Are you aware, that when Lady Avondale
sent a few days since for her lover’s portrait, and a lock of his
hair, Lady Mandeville yesterday in an envelope enclosed a braid of her
own. _C’est piquant cela: j’admire!_” “How illnatured the world is!”
said Miss Monmouth, who had heard the latter part of this discourse.
“Not illnatured or wicked, my dear,” said Lady Augusta; “only weak,
cowardly and inordinately stupid.” “With what self-satisfaction every
one triumphs at the fall of those whose talents or situation raise
them a little into observation!” said Miss Monmouth. “Common sense is
so pleased,” said Lady Augusta, “when it sees of how little use any
other sense is in this life, that one must forgive its triumph; and
its old saws and wholesome truisms come out with such an increase of
length and weight, when the enemy to its peace has tumbled down before
it, that it were vain to attempt a defence of the culprit condemned.
I know the world too well to break through any of the lesser rules
and customs imposed, but you, my dear, know nothing yet: therefore
I cannot talk to you.”
Miss Monmouth was the only child of the Honorable Mr. Monmouth, a near
relation of Lady Mowbrey’s. Her youth, her innocence, a certain charm
of manner and of person, rare and pleasing, had already, apparently,
made some impression upon Glenarvon. He had secretly paid her every
most marked attention. He had even made her repeatedly the most
honourable offers. At first, trembling and suspicious, she repulsed
the man of whom rumour had spoken much, which her firm principles
and noble generous heart disapproved; but soon attracted and subdued
by the same all splendid talents, she heard him with more favourable
inclinations. She was, herself, rich in the possession of every
virtue and grace; but, alas! too soon she was over-reached by the
same fascination and disguise which had imposed upon every other.
Amongst the many suitors who at this time appeared to claim Miss
Monmouth’s hand, Buchanan was the most distinguished. Lady Margaret
eagerly desired this marriage. She put every engine to work in a moment
to defeat Glenarvon’s views, and secure the prize for her son. She
even left Ireland upon hearing of his increasing influence, and joined
for a few weeks the party at Mortanville Priory. The parents of Miss
Monmouth were as eager for Buchanan, as the young lady was averse.
Glenarvon saw with bitterness the success his rival had obtained, and
hated the friends and parents of Miss Monmouth for their mistrust of
him. By day, by night, he assailed an innocent heart, not with gross
flattery, not with vain professions. He had a mask for every distinct
character he wished to play; and in each character he acted to the
very life.
In this instance, he threw himself upon the generous mercy of one
who already was but too well inclined to favour him. He candidly
acknowledged his errors; but he cast a veil over their magnitude;
and confessed only what he wished should be known. Miss Monmouth, he
said, should reform him; her gentle voice should recall his heart from
perversion; her virtues should win upon a mind, which, the errors of
youth, the world and opportunity had misled.
Miss Monmouth was the idol of her family. She was pure herself, and
therefore unsuspicious. Talents and judgment had been given her with
no sparing hand; but to these, she added the warmest, the most generous
heart, the strongest feelings, and a high and noble character. To save,
to reclaim one, whose genius she admired, whose beauty attracted, was
a task too delightful to be rejected. Thousands daily sacrifice their
hearts to mercenary and ambitious views; thousands coldly, without
one feeling of enthusiasm or love, sell themselves for a splendid
name; and can there be a mind so cold, so corrupted, as to censure the
girl, who, having rejected a Buchanan, gave her hand and heart, and
all that she possessed, to save, to bless, and to reclaim a Glenarvon.