“And Avondale,” said Viviani. “Lord Avondale,” replied the Count, “knows not, thinks not, comprehends not her danger or his own. But the hour of perdition approaches; the first years of peace and love are past; folly succeeds; and vice is the after game. These are the three stages in woman’s life. Calantha is swiftly passing through the second:—the third will succeed. The days and months once glided away in a dream of joy, dangerous and illusive—in a dream, I repeat; for all that depends on the excess and durability of any violent passion, must be called a dream. Such passion, even though sanctioned by the most sacred ties, if it engrosses every thought, is not innocent—cannot be lawful. It plants the seeds of corruption which flourish and gain strength hereafter. This is the climate in which they will soonest ripen:—this is the garden and soil, where they take the most rapid, and the deepest root.” “And think you, that Calantha and Avondale, are already weary of each other? that the warm and vivid imagination of youthful love is satiated with excess? or that disappointment has followed upon a nearer view?” “All passion,” replied Gondimar—falling back and impressively raising his hand—“all passion is founded on”...“Friend,” said Viviani, “thy prate is unmercifully tedious,”—“I half believe that thou art thyself in love with this Calantha; but for an explanation and detail of that master passion, I know not why I applied to you: Calantha is the object of your pursuit not mine.” “Of my pursuit! in truth I believe you feel more interest in her conduct than I do, I am old and weary of these follies; life is just opening upon you; Calantha is your idol” “No,” replied Viviani, with a smile of scorn. “It is not that party coloured butterfly, which ranges ever from flower to flower, spreading its light pinions in the summer breeze, or basking in the smiles of fortune, for which my life is consumed, my soul is scorched with living fire, and my mind is impaired and lost! Oh would to heaven that it were! No arts, no crimes were then required to win and to enjoy. The pulse of passion beats high within her, and pleads for the lover who dares to ask. Wild fancy, stimulated by keen sensibility and restless activity of mind, without employment, render her easy to be approached, and easy to be influenced and worked upon. Love is the nature of these favourites of fortune: from earliest infancy—they feel its power! and their souls enervated, live but upon its honied vows. Chaste—pure! What are these terms? The solitary recluse is not chaste, as I have heard; and these, never—never.”
“Yet Lady Margaret you say is unmoved.” “What of Lady Margaret?” interrupted Viviani, while bitter smiles quivered upon his lip. “Do you mark the pavement of stone upon which you tread? Do you see the steel of which this sabre is composed—once heated by the flames, now hard and insensible?—so cold,—so petrified is the heart, when it has once given full vent to passion. Marble is that heart which only beats for my destruction. The time is not yet arrived, but I will dash the cup of joy from her lips; then drink the dregs myself, and die.” “Mere jealous threats,” said Gondimar. “The curse of innocent blood is on her,” replied Viviani, as his livid cheeks and lips resumed a purple dye. “Name her no more.” “Explain yourself,” cried his astonished friend. “You frequently allude to scenes of deeper guilt and horror, than I dare even suffer myself to imagine possible.” “The heart of man is unfathomable,” replied Viviani;—“that which seems, is not:—that which is, seems not: we should neither trust our eyes nor ears, in a world like this. But time, which ripens all things, shall disclose the secrets even of the dead.”
A short time after this conversation with Gondimar, Viviani took leave of him. He informed him fully of his projects; and Lady Margaret was also consulted upon the occasion. “What is become of your menaced vengeance,” she said, smiling upon him, in their last parting interview. He laughed at the remembrance of his words. “Am I the object now of your abhorrence,” she said, placing her white hand carelessly upon his head. “Not absolutely,” replied the young Count, shrinking, however, from the pressure of that hand. “Touch me not,” he whispered more earnestly, “it thrills through my soul.—Keep those endearments for Dartford: leave me in peace.” Immediately after this he left London; and by the first letter Lady Margaret received from him, she found that he was preparing to embark.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Frances Seymour’s marriage with Lord Trelawny was now celebrated, after which the whole family left London for Ireland.
Sophia, previous to her departure, reproved Calantha for her obstinacy, as she called it, in remaining in town. “I leave you with pain,” she said: “forgive me if I say it, for I see you have no conception of the folly of your conduct. Ever in extremes, you have acted as I little expected from the wife of Lord Avondale; but I blame him equally for giving you such unbounded freedom:—only the very wise and the very good know how to use it.” “Sophia,” replied Calantha, “I wish not for reproaches:—have confidence in me:—we cannot all be exactly alike. You are a pattern of propriety and virtue, and verily you have your reward:—I act otherwise, and am prepared for censures:—even yours cannot offend me. Lord Avondale talks of soon returning to Ireland: I shall then leave this dear delightful London without regret; and you shall find me when we all meet for the spring at Castle Delaval, just the same, as when I entered it.” “Never the same,” thought Sophia, who marked, with astonishment, the change a few months had made.
They were yet speaking, and taking a cold farewell of each other, when a thundering rap at the door interrupted them, and before Sophia could retreat, Mr. Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady Mandeville were ushered in. A frozen courtesy, and an austere frown, were the only signs of animation Sophia gave, as she vanished from their view; for she seemed hardly to have energy sufficient left, to walk out of the room in an ordinary manner.
“You have been ill,” said Lady Mandeville, accosting Calantha. “It is a week since I have seen you. Think not, however, that I am come to intrude upon your time: I only called, as I passed your door, to enquire after you. Mr. Fremore tells me you are about to visit the Princess of Madagascar. Is this true? for I never believe any thing I hear?” “For once,” said Calantha, “you may do so; and on this very evening, my introduction is to take place.” “It is with regret I hear it,” said Lady Mandeville with a sigh: “we shall never more see any thing of you. Besides, she is not my friend.” Calantha assured Lady Mandeville her attachment could endure all sorts of trials; and laughingly enquired of her respecting her lovers, Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she was employed in translating. Lady Mandeville answered her with some indifference on these subjects; and having said all that she could in order to dissuade her against visiting the Princess, took her leave.
That evening, at the hour of ten, Lord Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in readiness, Calantha drove according to appointment to visit the wife of the great Nabob, the Princess of Madagascar. Now who is so ignorant as not to know that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned gothic building, called Barbary House, three miles beyond the turnpike? and who is so ignorant as not to be aware that her highness would not have favoured Lady Avondale with an audience, had she been otherwise than extremely well with the world, as the phrase is—for she was no patroness of the fallen! the caresses and petits mots obligeants which dropt from her during this her first interview, raised Lady Avondale in her own opinion; but that was unnecessary. What was more to the purpose, it won her entirely towards the Princess.
Calantha now, for the first time, conversed with the learned of the land:—she heard new opinions started, and old ones refuted; and she gazed unhurt, but not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, critics, and politicians. At the end of a long gallery, two thick wax tapers, rendering “darkness visible,” the princess was seated. A poet of an emaciated and sallow complexion stood beside her; of him it was affirmed that in apparently the kindest and most engaging manner, he, at all times, said precisely that which was most unpleasant to the person he appeared to praise. This yellow hyena had, however, a heart noble, magnanimous and generous; and even his friends, could they but escape from his smile and his tongue, had no reason to complain. Few events, if any, were ever known to move the Princess from her position. Her pages—her foreign attire, but genuine English manners, voice and complexion, attracted universal admiration. She was beautiful too, and had a smile it was difficult to learn to hate or to mistrust. She spoke of her own country with contempt; and, even in her dress, which was magnificent, attempted to prove the superiority of every other over it. Her morals were simple and uncorrupt, and in matters of religious faith she entirely surrendered herself to the guidance of Hoiaouskim. She inclined her head a little upon seeing Lady Avondale; the dead, I mean the sick poet, did the same; and Hoiaouskim, her high priest, cast his eyes, with unassuming civility, upon Calantha, thus welcoming her to Barbary House.