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,