Glenarvon continued absent and irritable during the whole of the walk; nor ceased enquiring oftentimes that day, respecting what she had said. It appeared to her less extraordinary, when she remembered the circumstances concerning Linden; yet he had so often acknowledged that event to her,—so often spoke of him with pity and regret, that had he merely thought she alluded to such transaction, he had been proud of the effort he had made to save him, and of the blood he had shed upon that account. Whatever then occasioned this strange perturbation;—however far imagination might wander, even though it pictured crimes unutterable,—under Glenarvon’s form all might be forgiven. Passion, perhaps, had misled its victim, and who can condemn another when maddening under its trying influence! It was not for Calantha to judge him. It was her misfortune to feel every thing with such acute and morbid sensibility, that what in others had occasioned a mere moment of irritation, shook every fibre around her heart. The death of a bird, if it had once been dear, made her miserable; and the slightest insult, as she termed it, rendered her furious. Severity but caused a desperate resistance, and kindness alone softened or subdued her. Glenarvon played upon every passion to the utmost; and when he beheld her, lost beyond all recall, he seemed to love her most.
How vain were it to attempt to paint the struggles, the pangs, the doubts, the fears, the endless unceasing irritation of a mind disordered by guilty love. Remorse had but little part in the disease; passion absorbed every feeling, every hope; and to retain Glenarvon was there any thing his weak and erring victim had refused? Alas! the hour came, when even to leave all and follow him appeared incumbent. The very ruin such conduct must occasion to Calantha, engaged her more eagerly to agree to the proposal.
Lady Margaret was now at times engaged with him in secret discourses, which occasioned much apparent dissention between them; but Calantha was not the subject. “He has the heart of a fiend,” Lady Margaret would often exclaim, as she left him; and Calantha could perceive that, with all her power of dissimulation, she was more moved more irritated by him, than she ever had been before by any other. He also spoke of Lady Margaret with bitterness, and the asperity between them grew to such a height, that Calantha apprehended the most fatal effects from it. Still, however, the Duke wished to conciliate a dangerous and malignant foe; and though his visits to the castle were short, compared with what they had been, they were as frequent as ever.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It happened one morning that Calantha, having been walking with Lord Glenarvon, upon her return entered the library rather unexpectedly, and perceived Zerbellini with the Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret. They all seemed in some confusion at her entrance. She was however too deeply occupied with other thoughts to enquire into their strange embarrassment; and looking at Glenarvon, she watched the varying expression of his countenance with anxious solicitude. At dinner that day he seated himself near her. Mrs. Seymour’s eyes were filled with tears. “It is too late,” he said, in a low whisper: “be firm: it makes me mad to see the arts that are used to separate us. Speak only to me—think only of me. What avail their frowns, their reproaches? I am dearer, am I not than all?”
Dinner being over, Calantha avoided her aunt’s presence. She perceived it, and approaching her, “My child,” she said, “do not fly me. My unhappy Calantha, you will break my heart, if you act thus.” At that moment Lady Margaret joined them: “Ask Calantha,” she said, “now ask her about the pearl necklace.”
The pearl necklace in question was one which Lord Avondale had given Calantha on the eve of her marriage. She was now accused of having given it to Lord Glenarvon. It is true that she had placed in his hands all the jewels of which she was mistress, that his presents might not exceed in value such as she had power to offer; they had been too magnificent otherwise for her to receive; and though only dear because they were his gifts, yet to have taken them without return had been more pain than pleasure; one smile of his were worth them all—one approving look, far dearer. This gift of Lord Avondale’s, however, she had considered as sacred, and neither Lord Glenarvon’s love, nor her own perversion, had led her to touch it. She had received it when innocent and true; it was pain to her even to look upon it now; and when she heard the accusation made against her, she denied it with considerable warmth; for guilt but irritates the mind, and renders the perpetrator impatient of accusation. “This indignation is rather ill-timed however,” said Lady Margaret, sarcastically: “there are things more sacred than pearls thrown away; and if the necklace has not been given, it is, I believe, the only thing, that has been retained.”
Such unpleasant conversation was now interrupted by Sophia, who entered the room.—“The necklace is found,” she said; “and who do you think had taken it?” “I care not,” said Calantha proud and offended at their former suspicions. “Zerbellini!” “Oh impossible!” “Some of Lady Margaret’s servants first suggested the possibility,” said Sophia. “His desk and wardrobe were consequently examined, and scarce giving credit to the testimony of their sight, the lost prize was discovered in his silken vest.” Calantha indignantly resisted the general belief that the boy was the real culprit. Every one left the room, and eagerly enquired into the whole affair. “If ocular proof is necessary to convince you,” said Lady Margaret, returning to Calantha and leading her from the billiard room, accompanied by many others, “you shall now have it; and see,” she cried, pausing as she entered the boy’s apartment, “how soundly criminals can sleep!” “Aye, and how tranquil and innocent they can appear,” continued Gondimar smiling as he stood by the side of the page’s bed. Glenarvon’s countenance, rendered more terrible by the glimmering of the lamp, changed at these words.
There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, lay the youthful Zerbellini, his cheeks blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing in clusters about his face, his arms thrown over his head with infantine and playful grace. “If he be guilty,” said Calantha, looking earnestly at him, “Great God, how much one may be deceived!” “How much one may be deceived!” said the Duke turning back and glancing his eye on the trembling form of his daughter. The necklace was produced: but a look of doubt was still seen on every countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly approaching Gondimar, asked him whether some villain might not have placed it there, to screen himself and to ruin the boy? “I should be loath,” replied the Italian, with an affectation of humility, “very loath to imagine that such a wretch could exist.” A glance of bitter scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed.
“We can see the boy, alone, in the morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper to Calantha; “there is more in this than we know of. Be calm; fear not, and to-morrow, we can with caution discover all.” “Do not talk of to-morrow,” replied Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment is too long to bear injustice. I will plead with my father.” So saying, she followed him, urging him to hear her. “Consider the youth of the child,” she said, “even if guilty, remember he is but young.” “His youth but aggravates the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing her. “When the young can act basely, it shews that the heart’s core is black. Plead not for him: look to yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and left her. The time was past when a prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed in vain; and struggling with a thousand strong emotions, she fled to her own room, and gave vent to the contending passions, by which she was so greatly agitated.