If that question, where is Lady Avondale? must be answered, it is with sorrow and regret that such answer will be made:—she was walking slowly, as Gondimar had seen her, by the banks of the river Elle: she was silent, too, and mournful; her spirits were gone; her air was that of one who is deeply interested in all she hears. She was not alone—Lord Glenarvon was by her side. It was their custom thus to walk: they met daily; they took every opportunity of meeting; and when in their morning and evening rambles she pointed out the beautiful views around, the ranging mountains, and the distant ocean,—he would describe, in glowing language, the far more magnificent and romantic scenery of the countries through which he had passed—countries teaming with rich fruits, vinyards and olive groves; luxuriant vales and mountains, soaring above the clouds, whose summits were white with snow, while a rich and ceaseless vegetation adorned the valleys beneath. He told her that he hated these cold northern climes, and the bottle green of the Atlantic;—that could she see the dark blue of the Mediterranean, whose clear wave reflected the cloudless sky, she would never be able to endure those scenes in which she now took such delight. And soon those scenes lost all their charms for Calantha; for that peace of mind which gave them charms was fast departing; and she sighed for that beautiful land to which his thoughts reverted, and those Italian climes, to which he said, he so soon must return.
CHAPTER XVII.
It was upon this, evening, that, having walked for a considerable time Lady Avondale felt fatigued and rested for a moment near the banks of Elle. She pointed to the roses which grew luxuriantly around. “They are no longer rare,” she said alluding to the one he had given her upon their first acquaintance at Donallan: “but are they the less prized?” He understood her allusion, and pulling a bud from the mossy bank on which it grew, he kissed it, and putting it gently to her lips asked her, if the perfume were sweet, and which she preferred of the two roses which he had offered her? She knew not what she answered; and she afterwards wished she could forget what she had then felt.
Gondimar passed by them at that moment:—He observed her confusion; he retired as if fearful of encreasing it; and, but too conscious that such conversation was wrong, Calantha attempted once to change it. “I will shew you the new lodge,” she said turning up a large gravel walk, out of the shrubbery. “Shew me!” Glenarvon answered smiling. “Trust me, I know every lodge and walk here better than yourself;” and he amused himself with her surprise. Some thought, however, occurred, which checked his merriment—some remembrances made this boast of his acquaintance with the place painful to him. There was one, whom he had formerly seen and admired, who was no longer present and whom every one but himself appeared to have forgotten—one who lovely in the first bloom of spotless youth; had felt for him all that even his heart could require. She was lost—he should never see her more.
A momentary gloom darkened his countenance at this recollection. He looked upon Calantha and she trembled; for his manner was much altered. Her cheeks kindled as he spoke:—her eye dared no longer encounter his. If she looked up for a moment, she withdrew in haste, unable to sustain the ardent glance: her step tremblingly advanced, lingering, but yet not willingly retreating. Her heart beat in tumult, or swelled with passion, as he whispered to her that, which she ought never to have heard. She hastened towards the castle:—he did not attempt to detain her.
It was late: the rest of the company were gone home. Thither she hastened; and hurrying to the most crowded part of the room, flushed with her walk, she complained of the heat, and thought that every eye was fixed upon her with looks of strong disapprobation. Was it indeed so? or was it a guilty conscience which made her think so?
Lady Mandeville, observing her distress, informed her that Count Gondimar, had been composing a song, but would not sing it till she was present. She eagerly desired to hear it. “It is about a rose,” said Gondimar, significantly glancing his eye upon the one in Calantha’s bosom. The colour in her cheeks became redder far than the rose. “Sing it,” she said, “or rather let me read it ... or ... but wherefore are you not dancing, or at billiards? How dull it must be for Clara and Charlotte” (these were two of Lady Mandeville’s children). “You never thought of Lady Mandeville’s beautiful children, and our state of dullness, while you were walking,” cried Lady Augusta, “and last night you recollect that when you made every one dance, you sat apart indulging vain phantasies and idle reveries. However, they are all gone into the ball-room, if dancing is the order of the night; but as for me, I shall not stir from this spot, till I hear Count Gondimar’s song.”
“I will sing it you, Lady Avondale,” said the Count, smiling at her distress, “the first evening that you remain at your balcony alone, watching the clouds as they flit across the moon, and listening, I conclude, to the strains of the nightingale.” “Then,” she said, affecting unconcern, “I claim your promise for to-morrow night, punctually at nine.” He approached the piano-forte. “Ah not now—I am engaged,—I must dance.” “Now or never,” said the Count. “Never then, never,” she answered, almost crying, though she affected to laugh. Lady Augusta entreated for the song, and the Count, after a short prelude, placed the manuscript paper before him, and in a low tone of voice began:—
(To the air of “Ils ne sont plus.”)
Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing,