Calantha could hardly believe it possible:—the words he pronounced were those inscribed on her bracelet. “And are you my cousin?” said she: “is it indeed so? no: I cannot believe it.” Buchanan bowed again. “Yes,” said he; “and a pretty cousin you have proved yourself to me. I had vowed never to forgive you; but you are much too lovely and too dear for me to wish to keep my oath.” A thousand remembrances now crowded on her mind—the days of her infancy—the amusements and occupations of her childhood; and she looked vainly in Buchanan’s face, for the smallest traces of the boy she had known so well. Delighted with her evening’s adventure, and solely occupied with her companion, the masquerade, the heat and all other annoyances were forgotten, till Lady Dartford being fatigued, entreated her to retire.
She had conversed during the greater part of the evening with Lord Dartford. The female gipsey to whose party he belonged, and who had attacked Lady Avondale, was Lady Margaret Buchanan. He had asked Lady Dartford many questions about himself, to all of which she had answered with a reserve that had pleased him, and with a praise so unaffected, so heartfelt, and so little deserved, that he could not but deeply feel his own demerit. He did not make himself known, but suffered Lady Margaret to rally and torment his unoffending wife; asking her repeatedly, why so pretty, and so young, Lord Dartford permitted her to go to a masquerade without a protector. “It is,” replied Lady Dartford innocently, “that he dislikes this sort of amusement, and knows well, that those who appear unprotected, are sure of finding friends.” At this speech Lady Margaret laughed prodigiously; and turning to the Friar, who, much disguised, still followed her, asked him, if he had never seen Lord Dartford at a masquerade, giving it as her opinion, that he was very fond of this sort of amusement, and was probably there at that very moment.
In the mean time, Calantha continued to talk with Buchanan, and eagerly enquired of him who it was who, thus disguised, had with so much acrimony attacked her. “I do not know the young man,” he answered:—“my mother calls him Viviani:—he is much with her; but he ever wears a disguise, I think; for no one sees him; and, except Gondimar, he seems not to have another acquaintance in England.”
It has been said that the weak-minded are alone attracted by the eye; and they who say this, best know what they mean. To Calantha it appeared that the eye was given her for no other purpose than to admire all that was fair and beautiful. Certain it is, she made that use of her’s; and whether the object of such admiration was man, woman, or child, horse or flower, if excellent in its kind, she ever gave them the trifling homage of her approbation. Her new-found cousin was therefore hailed by her with the most encouraging smile; and how long she might have listened to the account he was giving her of his exploits, is unknown, had not Frances approached her in a hasty manner, and said, “Do come away:—the strangest thing possible has happened to me:—Lord Trelawney has proposed to me, and I—I have accepted his offer.” “Accepted his offer!” Calantha exclaimed, with a look of horror. “Oh, pray, keep my secret till we get home,” said Frances. “I dare not tell Sophia; but you must break it to my mother.”
Lord Trelawney was a silly florid young man, who laughed very heartily and good humouredly, without the least reason. He wore the dress, and had been received in that class of men, whom Lady Augusta called the exquisites. He had professed the most extravagant adoration for Lady Avondale, so that she was quite astonished at his having attached himself so suddenly to Frances; but not being of a jealous turn, she wished her joy most cordially, and when she did the same by him,—“Could not help what I’ve done,” he said, looking tenderly at her through a spying-glass:—“total dearth of something else to say:—can never affection her much:—but she’s your cousin, you know:”—and then he laughed.
Lady Avondale prevailed on Frances to keep this important secret from her mother till morning, as that good lady had not long been in bed, and to arouse her with such unexpected news at five o’clock had been cruel and useless. The next morning, long before Lady Avondale had arisen, every one knew the secret; and very soon after, preparations for the marriage were made. The young bride received presents and congratulations: her spirits were exuberant; and her lover, perfect and delightful. Even Lady Avondale beheld him with new eyes, and the whole family, whenever he was mentioned, spoke of him as a remarkably sensible young man, extremely well informed, and possessed of every quality best adapted to ensure the happiness of domestic life.
CHAPTER XXVII.
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.