Shall bid St. Clara’s heart be still—
When struggling with its latest breath,
His image shall her fancy fill,
Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
What fate attends Glenarvon’s love.
Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to approach her. “Beautiful, unhappy St. Clara, I will be your friend—will protect you.” She ran forward, and climbed the steep ascent with ease; but the youthful harper arose—her dark sunny ringlets waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: she slightly bowed to Calantha as if in derision; and laughing, as she upheld a chain with an emerald ring, bounded over the rocks with an activity, which long habit had rendered familiar.
Calantha beheld her no more: but the distant shouts of applause re-echoed as at first among the caverns and mountains; and the bark with Lord Glenarvon soon reappeared in sight. She awaited his return. As he approached the beach, a loud murmur of voices from behind the rock continued. He joined her in a moment. His countenance was lighted with the ray of enthusiasm:—his altered manner shewed the success his efforts had obtained. He told Calantha of his projects; he described to her the meetings which he had held by night and day; and he spoke with sanguine hope of future success—the freedom of Ireland, and the deathless renown of such as supported her fallen rights. “Some day you must follow me,” he cried: “let me shew you the cavern beneath the rock, where I have appointed our meeting for the ensuing week.”
“I will walk no more with you to Inis Tara:—the harp sounds mournfully on those high cliffs:—I wish never more to hear it.” “Have you seen St. Clara?” he said, without surprise. “She sings and plays well, does she not? But she is not dear to me: think not of her. I could hate her, but that I pity her. Young as she is, she is cruelly hardened and vindictive.”—“I cannot fear her: she is too young and too beautiful to be as abandoned as you would make me think.”—“It is those who are young and beautiful you should fear most,” said he, approaching her more nearly.—“I may fear them,” she replied, “but can you teach me to fly them?”
It was now late: very little else passed: they returned home, where they were received with considerable coldness. But Lady Mandeville, perceiving the state of suffering to which Calantha had reduced herself, generously came forward to sooth and to assist her. She appeared really attached to her; and at this time more even than at any former period, shewed her sincere and disinterested friendship. And yet she was the person Mrs. Seymour distrusted; and even Glenarvon spoke of her with asperity and disdain. “Adelaide! though an envious world may forsake thee, a grateful friend shall stand firm by thee to the last.” Such were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, languidly throwing her rounded arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, and sighed to think of the misery she was preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I see how he loves thee,” she continued, “I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.”
That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady Avondale. His letter repeated all he had before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. She had scarce received it, scarce placed it in her bosom, when Lady Margaret attacked her. “You think,” she said, “that you have made a conquest. Silly child, Lord Glenarvon is merely playing upon your vanity.” Lady Augusta whispered congratulations: Sophia hoped she was pleased with her morning walk; Sir Everard coldly asked her if she had beheld his niece, and then, with a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it was vastly pleasant to depend upon certain people’s promises.