Happily for Miss Monmouth, at the very moment her consent was given,
Lady Margaret placed a letter in Glenarvon’s hands, which threw him
into the deepest agitation, and obliged him instantly, and for a
short time, to hasten to England. He went there in company with Lady
Margaret; and strange as it may appear, the love, the idolatry, he
had professed for so many, seemed now with greater vehemence than
for others transferred to herself. Whether from artifice or caprice,
it is unnecessary to say, but Lady Margaret at least made shew of
a return. She never lost sight of him for one moment. She read with
him; she talked with him; she chided him with all the wit and grace
of which she was mistress; and he, as if maddening in her presence,
gazed on her with wild delight; and seemed inclined to abandon every
thing for her sake.
Lady Margaret applied to her numerous friends for the ship which had
long been promised to Lord Glenarvon, as a reward for his former
services. She wrote to Sir George Buchanan for his appointment;
she spoke with eloquence of his misfortunes; and whether from her
representations, or some other cause, his titles and estates were at
length restored to him. Thanking her for the zeal she had shewn, he
proposed to return with her immediately to Italy.
She now hesitated. Her brother had written to her: these were the
words of his letter: “Buchanan is desirous that his marriage should
be celebrated in this place. Miss Monmouth, I fear, has been compelled
to accept his hand; and I should pity her, if such force did not save
her from a far worse fate. I mean a marriage with Glenarvon.”
Glenarvon was by Lady Margaret’s side when this letter was received.
He held one of Lady Margaret’s white hands in his: he was looking
upon the rings she wore, and laughingly asking her if they were the
gifts of Dartford. “Look at me, my beautiful mistress,” he said, with
the triumph of one secure. She carelessly placed the letter before
his eyes. “Correct your vanity,” she said, whilst he was perusing
it, alluding to the words he had written to Calantha; “exert your
caprices upon others more willing to bear them; and leave me in peace.”
Stung to the soul, Glenarvon started; and gazed on her with malignant
rage: then grinding his teeth with all the horror of supprest rage,
“I am not a fly to be trodden upon, but a viper that shall sting thee
to the heart. Farewell for ever,” he cried, rushing from her. Then
returning one moment with calmness, and smiling on her, “you have
not grieved me,” he said gently: “I am not angry, my fair mistress.
We shall meet again: fear not we shall meet again.” “Now I am lost,”
said Lady Margaret, when he was gone. “I know by that smile that my
fate is sealed.”
There is nothing so uncongenial to the sorrowing heart as gaiety
and mirth; yet Calantha was at this time condemned to witness it.
No sickness, no sufferings of its owners, prevented extraordinary
festivities at the castle. Upon the evening of the celebration of
Buchanan’s marriage, there were revels and merry-making as in happier
times; and the peasantry and tenants, forgetful of their cabals
and wrongs, all appeared to partake in the general festivity. The
ribband of green was concealed beneath large bouquets of flowers; and
healths and toasts went round with tumults of applause, regardless of
the sorrows of the owners of the castle. The lawn was covered with
dancers. It was a cheerful scene; and even Calantha smiled, as she
leant upon her father’s arm, and gazed upon the joyful countenances
which surrounded her; but it was the smile of one whose heart was
breaking, and every tenant as he passed by and greeted her looked
upon the father and the child, and sighed at the change which had
taken place in the appearance of both.
Suddenly, amidst the dancers, with a light foot, as if springing
from the earth, there appeared, lovely in beauty and in youth, the
fairest flower of Belfont. It was Miss St. Clare. No longer enveloped
in her dark flowing mantle, she danced amidst the village maidens,
the gayest there. She danced with all the skill of art, and all the
grace of nature. Her dress was simple and light as the web of the
gossamer: her ringlets, shining in the bright sun-beams, sported with
the wind: red was her cheek as the first blush of love, or the rose
of summer, when it opens to the sun.
Upon the lake the boats, adorned with many coloured ribbands, sailed
with the breeze. Bands of music played underneath the tents which
were erected for refreshments. The evening was bright and cloudless.
Elinor was the first and latest in the dance—the life and spirit of the
joyous scene. Some shrunk back it is true at first, when they beheld
her; but when they saw her smile, and that look of winning candour,
which even innocence at times forgets to wear, that playful youthful
manner, re-assured them. “Can it be possible!” said Calantha, when
the music ceased, and the villagers dispersed—“can you indeed affect
this gaiety, or do you feel it, St. Clare?” “I feel it,” cried the
girl, laughing archly. “The shafts of love shall never pierce me;
and sorrows, though they fall thicker than the rain of Heaven, shall
never break my heart.” “Oh! teach me to endure afflictions thus. Is
it religion that supports you?” “Religion!” St. Clare sighed.
“Yon bright heaven,” she said, uplifting her eyes, “is not for me.
The time has been, when, like you, I could have wept, and bowed
beneath the chastening rod of adversity; but it is past. Turn you,
and repent lady; for you are but young in sin, and the heart alone
has wandered. Turn to that God of mercy, and he will yet receive and
reclaim you.” A tear started into her eyes, as she spoke. “I must
journey on; for the time allowed me is short. Death walks among us
even now. Look at yon lordly mansion—your father’s house. Is it well
defended from within? Are there bold hearts ready to stand forth in
the time of need? Where is the heir of Delaval:—look to him:—even now
they tear him from you. The fiends, the fiends are abroad:—look to
your husband, lady—the gallant Earl of Avondale: red is the uniform
he wears; black is the charger upon which he rides; but the blood of
his heart shall flow. It is a bloody war we are going to: this is
the year of horror!!! Better it were never to have been born, than
to have lived in an age like this.”
“Unhappy maniac,” said a voice from behind. It was the voice of the
Bard Camioli: “unhappy St. Clare!” he said. She turned; but he was
gone. Every one now surrounded Miss St. Clare, requesting her to sing.
“Oh I cannot sing,” she replied, with tears, appealing to Calantha;
then added lower—“my soul is in torture. That was a father’s voice,
risen from the grave to chide me.”
Calantha took her hand with tenderness; but Miss St. Clare shrunk from
her. “Fly me,” she said, “for that which thou thinkest sweet has lost
its savour. Oh listen not to the voice of the charmer, charm she ever
so sweetly. Yet ere we part, my young and dear protectress, take with
you my heart’s warm thanks and blessings; for thou hast been kind to
the friendless—thou hast been merciful to the heart that was injured,
and in pain. I would not wish to harm thee. May the journey of thy
life be in the sunshine and smiles of fortune. May soft breezes waft
thy gilded bark upon a smooth sea, to a guileless peaceful shore.
May thy footsteps tread upon the green grass, and the violet and the
rose spring up under thy feet.” Calantha’s pale cheeks and falling
tears were her only answer to this prayer.