Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following are possible misspellings:

GLENARVON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

1816.

London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
13, Poland Street.

Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme

Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.

CHAPTER I.

In the morning Calantha beheld crowds of discontented catholics who thronged the outer courts waiting to see her father. Petitions for redress were thrown in at the windows; and whilst they were at breakfast, Sir Everard entering, without even waiting to see who was present, asked eagerly if the Duke was at home: he, at the same moment gave a huge paper closely written, into the hands of one of the servants, desiring it to be instantly delivered to the Duke; “and tell him, sir,” vociferated the doctor, “it is my case written out clear, as he commanded—the one I had the honour to present to him t’other day, when he had not leisure to look upon it:” then turning round, and seeing Calantha, “By my soul,” he exclaimed, “if here ain’t my own dear Lady Calantha; and God be praised Madam, you are come amongst us; for the devil and all is broke loose since you’ve been away. Let’s look at you: well, and you are as tall and handsome as ever; but I—Oh! Lady Calantha Delaval, begging your pardon, what a miserable wretch am I become. Lord help me, and deliver me. Lord help us all, in unmerited affliction.”

Calantha had not heard of Sir Everard’s misfortunes; and was really afraid to ask him what had occurred. He held her hand, and wept so audibly, that she already saw some of those present turning away, for fear they should not be able to conceal their laughter: his strange gestures were indeed a hard trial. “Be pacified, calm yourself my good Doctor,” said Mrs. Seymour, giving him a chair: “Heaven forfend,” said Sir Everard: “Nature, Madam, will have a vent. I am the most miserable man alive: I am undone, you well know; but Lord! this dear child knows little if any thing about it. Oh! I am a mere nothing now in the universe.” Gondimar, with a smile, assured Sir Everard that could never be the case, whilst he retained, unimpaired, that full rotundity of form. “Sir, are you here?” cried the Doctor, fiercely: “but it is of small importance. I am no longer the soft phlegmatic being you left me. I am a wild beast, Sir—a dangerous animal.—Away with your scoffs.—I will fight, Sir—murder, Sir—aye, and smile whilst I murder.”

There was something in these words which turned Lady Margaret’s cheeks to a deadly pale; but the Doctor, who had sought for forcible expressions alone, without the least heeding the application, continued to storm and to rage. “I’m a man,” he cried, “accustomed to sufferings and to insult. Would you credit it, dear Lady Calantha: can you comprehend it?—that lawless gang—those licentious democrats—those rebellious libertines, have imposed on the inordinate folly of my wife and daughters, who, struck mad, like Agave in the orgies of Bacchus, are running wild about the country, their hair dishevelled, their heads ornamented with green cockades, and Lady St. Clare, to the shame of her sex and me, the property of a recruiting serjeant, employed by one of that nest of serpents at the abbey, to delude others, and all, I believe, occasioned by that arch fiend, Glenarvon.”

“Oh!” cried Gerald MacAllain, who was in attendance at the breakfast table, “saving your honour’s pardon, the young Lord of Glenarvon has been the cause of my two brave boys being saved from the gallows. I will rather lose my life, than stand to hear him called an arch fiend.” “He is one, old Gerald, whether you or I call him so or no. Witness how, the other night, he set the rabble with their torches to burning Mr. O’Flarney’s barns, and stealing his sheep and oxen and all his goods.” “Och it’s my belief the rector of Belfont, when he comes, will speak a word for him thoft,” returned Gerald MacAllain; “for, save the presence of the Duke, who is not here to hear me, he has been our guard and defence all the while his grace’s honour has been out of the kingdom.” “Curses light upon him and his gang,” cried Sir Everard, furiously. “Are not Miss Laura and Miss Jessica after him at this very time, and my pretty niece, my young, my dear Elinor, and Lady St. Clare, more crazy than all, is not she following him about as if he were some god?”

“The whole country are after him,” cried Gerald MacAllain, enthusiastically: “it’s a rage, a fashion.” “It’s a phrenzy,” returned the Doctor,—“a pestilence which has fallen on the land, and all, it’s my belief, because the stripling has not one christian principle, or habit in him: he’s a heathen.” “If it is the young Glenarvon,” said Gondimar, approaching the irritated Doctor, “he is my friend.” “Don’t bring any of your knock me down arguments to me, Sir. His being your friend, only gives a blacker shade to his character, in my opinion.” “Sir, I hate personal attacks.” “A blow that hits, Count, and a cap that fits, are sure to make a sufferer look foolish, excessively foolish: not but what you did so before. I never believed in baseness and malignity till I knew the Count Gondimar.” “Nor I in arrogance and stupidity, till I knew Sir Everard.” “Count, you are the object of my astonishment.” “And you, Sir, of my derision.” “Italian, I despise you,” “I should only feel mortified, if Sir Everard did otherwise.” “The contempt, Sir, of the meanest, cannot be a matter of triumph.” “It is a mark of wisdom, to be proud of the scorn of fools.” “Passion makes me mad.” “Sir, you were that before.” “I shall forget myself.” “I wish you would permit me to do so.”

“A truce to these quarrels, good doctor,” said the Duke, who had entered the room during the latter part of the discussion. “I have been reading some papers of a very serious nature; and I am sorry to say it appears from them that Sir Everard has very great cause for his present irritation of mind: he is an aggrieved man. This Lord Glenarvon or whatever the young gentleman styles himself, has acted in a manner not only unjustifiable, but such as I am afraid will ultimately lead to his entire ruin. Count Gondimar, I have often heard you speak of this unfortunate young man, with more than common interest. Could not you make use of your friendship and intimacy with him, to warn him of the danger of his present conduct, and lead him from the society of his worthless associates. He seems to be acting under the influence of a mad infatuation.” Gondimar assured the Duke, that he had no sort of influence with the young Lord. “Read these papers, at your leisure,” said the Duke: “they are statements, you will find, of a number of outrages committed by himself and his followers, on people highly respectable and utterly defenceless. For the common follies of youth, there is much excuse; but nothing can palliate repeated acts of licentious wickedness and unprovoked cruelty. I am inclined to believe these accounts are much exaggerated; but the list of grievances is large; and the petitioners for redress are many of them my most worthy and long-tried servants, at the head of whom O’Flarney’s name is to be found.”

“No, my Lord,—mine is at the head of the list,” cried the doctor; “and in every other part of it, no injuries can be equal to mine. What are barns, pigs, firearms, compared to a father’s wrongs—a husband’s injuries. Ah, consider my case first. Restore Miss St. Clare, and I’ll be pacified. Why do I raise laughter by my cry? It is my niece, my favourite child, who has been taken from me.” “Pray explain to me seriously, Sir,” said Lady Augusta, approaching the doctor, with much appearance of interest, “how came your family to fall into the unfortunate situation to which you allude?” “How came they,” said the Count? “can you ask, when you see Sir Everard at the head of it?” “Madam,” said the Doctor with equal solemnity, “this momentous crisis has been approaching some time. St. Clara, as we called her, my most lovely and interesting Elinor’s affections have long been seduced. We all knew, lamented and concealed the circumstance. The old lady’s conduct, however, was quite an unexpected blow. But since they took to their nocturnal rambles to St. Mary’s, St. Alvin’s, and all the saints around, their sanctity has not been much mended that I see, and their wits are fairly overset. As to my girls, I really feel for them: my own disgrace I can easily support: but oh my Elinor!”

“What nocturnal meetings have taken place at St. Mary’s and St. Alvin’s?” said Lady Trelawney, with a face of eager curiosity. “The discontented flock together in shoals,” said the Doctor, indignantly, “till by their machinations, they will overturn the State. At Belfont, opposite my very window,—aye, even in that great square house which Mr. Ochallavan built, on purpose to obstruct Lady St. Clare’s view, have they not set up a library? The Lord help me. And was it not there I first saw that accursed pamphlet Lord Glenarvon wrote; which rhapsody did not I myself immediately answer? Lady Calantha, strange things have occurred since your departure. Captain Kennedy, commander of the district, can’t keep his men. Cattle walk out of the paddocks of themselves: women, children, pigs, wander after Glenarvon: and Miss Elinor, forgetful of her old father, my dear mad brother, her aunt, her religion, and all else, to the scandal of every one in their senses, heads the rabble. They have meetings under ground, and over ground; out at sea, and in the caverns: no one can stop the infection; the poison in the fountain of life; and our very lives and estates are no longer in safety. You know not, you cannot know, what work we have had since you last left us.” Sir Everard paused, and then taking a couple of pamphlets from his pocket, entreated Calantha to peruse them. “Cast your eye over these,” he said: “I wrote them in haste; they are mere sketches of my sentiments; but I am going to publish. Oh! when you see what I am now going to publish. It is intituled a refutation of all that has or may be said by the disaffected, in or out of the kingdom.”

CHAPTER II.

The party at the castle had postponed their visit to St. Alvin Priory till the feast of St. Kathereen and St. Mary, which in that neighbourhood was always celebrated with much observance. A fair was held upon the downs, in honour of these two martyrs. The rocks near which the ruins of the convent stood, were called the Black Sisters, and it was there, and in the Wizzard’s Glen, which stretched from the top to the foot of the mountain, that the meetings of the discontented had been held. The day proved fair; and at an early hour the carriages and horses were in attendance. Mrs. Seymour and many others declined being of the party; but Lady Margaret took Gondimar’s arm with a smile of good humour, which she could at times put on. Buchanan drove Calantha in his barouch. Sir Everard rode by Calantha’s side on a lowly white palfrey, as if to protect her. Lady Mandeville was with her; and Lady Trelawney took Sophia and Lady Augusta Selwyn in her carriage. The rest of the gentlemen were some on horseback and some in curricles.

The whole country smiled around. There were ringers, and pipers, and hurlers upon the down. The cliff, towards the sea, was covered with booths and tents. Flocks, herds and horses had been brought from far for sale, ornamented with ribbands; green being the favourite colour. Scarcely ever was witnessed a scene more gay. This, and the vessels laden with fish, crowding into the harbour below, and the high mountains beyond, struck even the Italian, whose eyes had been accustomed to all that nature can produce of picturesque and majestic. The beauty of the girls, with their long blue mantles thrown aside from their shoulders, their dark hair fastened behind with a knot of ribband, was the subject of discussion. Comparisons of the difference of form between one nation and another arose. All descended from their carriages and horses. Lady Mandeville repeated poetry; Gondimar became sentimental; Buchanan looked at the horses, enquired their prices, and soon joined the hurlers, in whose combat he grew so much interested, that no one could draw him from thence until the moment when they left the fair, where they had remained till they were all much fatigued.

“What are you laughing at so immensely?” cried Lady Augusta Selwyn, approaching Lord Trelawney, who was nearly enclosed in a circle of some hundreds. The moment Lady Augusta approached, with a courtesy seldom seen but in Ireland, the crowd made way for her. “I am listening,” said he, “to a preacher—a most capital preacher, whom they call Cowdel O’Kelly. Only observe him: what a rogue it is, with that hypocrite mildness of manner, that straight black hair, that presbyterian stiffness and simplicity.” “But what is he saying?” enquired Lady Augusta. The preacher, standing upon a cart, was delivering an exhortation in a very emphatic manner, to a vast concourse of attentive hearers. The presence of the party from the Castle had no effect upon him: he was inveighing against the insolence of his superiors in rank, and pleading in favour of the rights of man.

When he had concluded his discourse, the crowd dispersed, some laughing at him, and some much edified by his discourse. O’Kelly looked after them:—“That is the way of the world,” he said: “it gets all it can from a man, and then it leaves him; but all that is, is for the best; therefore, amen, your honours; so be it.” Lord Trelawney laughed to an excess. “Your name,” said he, “I take it, it is Cowdel O’Kelly.” “If you take it to be my name, your honour can’t be any ways wrong in calling me by it; but I call myself citizen Wailman.” “And why the devil, my honest friend, do you call yourself so?” “To please myself, and trick my master.” “And pray who is your master?” “When I know that, I’ll let you know.” “What! not know your master?” “Why what master knows his servant? There’s nothing extraordinary in that, my Lord.” “But pray, my good citizen Wailman, where do you live, and where does your master live?”—“I live where I can, your honour; and as to my master, every one knows he lives under ground, in the family vault.”

“Is he dead then, or what can he be doing under ground?” said Lady Trelawney. “Looking for friends, Miss, I believe; for he has none, that I see, above board.” “I am sure this is a rebel in disguise,” whispered Lady Trelawney. Her Lord laughed.

A beautiful little boy now pushing his way through the crowd, plainly pronounced the words, “O’Kelly come home; I am very tired.” The man, hastily descending from the cart, called him his young prince—his treasure; and lifted him up in his arms. “He is about the same age as Henry Mowbray,” said Calantha, “and very like him. What is your name, my pretty child?” “Clare of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should by rights be Lord Clare—should it not, O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled and put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s mouth, who kissed them, and making a slight bow, would have retired. “What, are you going? will you not stay a moment?” “I fear I intrude too much on your honour’s time.” “Not in the least—not in the least, good Mister Wailman; pray stay a little longer.” “Why, fair and honest, if I don’t intrude too much on your time, my lord, you do on mine; and so your servant.”

“I really believe he belongs to the abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who had re-entered her barouche, and was driving with the rest of the party, towards St. Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along by the cliff, in the same direction we are going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady Augusta; “but to be sure no more like Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in the seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, pray look,” interrupted Frances: “I assure you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s wife, and Lauriana and Jessica are with her. I am certain of it,” she continued, throwing herself nearly out of the carriage to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney was extremely diverted. “And there is the recruiting serjeant: only observe the manner in which they are habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest in the most flaunting attire, singing in chorus the song of liberty, covered with green ribbands, were walking in company with a vast number of young men, most of them intoxicated, and all talking and laughing loudly. Calantha begged Buchanan to stop the carriage, that she also might see them pass; which they did, marching to the sound of the drum and fife: but her heart sickened when she saw the beautiful recluse of Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came near: she raised her full black eye, and gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha.

It was the same face she had seen a few years back at the convent: but alas, how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson of her cheek, the deep dark brown of the wild ringlets which waved above her brow, the bold masculine manners and dress she had assumed, contrasting with the slender beauty of her upright form. She was drest in uniform, and walked by the side of a young man, whose pale, thoughtful countenance struck every one. Elinor appeared desperate and utterly hardened: her presence inspired Calantha with a mixed feeling of horror and commiseration, which Lady St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and clumsy personages turned into disgust.

“Oh did you behold her?—did you see my poor deluded Elinor?” cried Sir Everard, riding up to Calantha, as she still gazed from the open carriage upon the procession: “did you see my unfortunate girls?” “I did, indeed,” said Lady Avondale, the tears springing into her eyes: “I saw them and stopped; for it occurred to me, that, perhaps, I might speak to them—might yet save them.” “And would you have condescended so much? Oh! this is more than I dared ask or hope.” Saying which, the Doctor wept, as was his custom, and Buchanan laughed. “You are so good,” continued he: “you were in tears when you saw your former playmates disgracing themselves, and their sex, but in the rest of the carriages I heard nothing but jesting, and loud laughter. And oh! would you credit it, can you believe it, Lady St. Clare had the audacity to drop me a courtesy as she passed.”

“Was the tall young man, who was walking by the side of Elinor, Cyrel Linden?” “It was the same,” cried the Doctor—“gone mad like the rest, though they tell me it is all for the love of Miss Alice; and that since her loss, he is grown desperate, and cares not what becomes of him. They’ll be hanged, however; that is one consolation—Lady St. Clare, as well as the rest. Indeed,” cried he, drawing closer, “I am credibly informed that the officers of justice have an eye upon them, and wait only to obtain further evidence of their treasonable practices, to take them up.” During this discourse, the carriage drove slowly up the hill; but soon proceeding at a brisker pace, the doctor was obliged to draw in his steed and retire. The party now entered the park.

CHAPTER III.

Belfont Abbey and St. Alvin’s ruined Priory appeared in view. The ivy climbed around the turrets; and the grass grew upon the paved courts, where desolation and long neglect prevailed. At a distance from the convent, a ruin, a lonely pile stood upon the cliff in solitary grandeur. Not a tree, nor any appearance of cultivation was seen around: barren moors, the distant mountains, and the vast ocean, every where filled the eye. The servants rang at the bell of the outer gate: it resounded through the vaulted passages with a long repeated echo.—A boy immediately answered the summons: with a look of stupid astonishment, he waited in expectation of their commands.

Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they might see the Priory. “I suppose so,” was his reply. And without further preamble, they alighted. “It must be rather melancholy to live here during the winter months,” said Calantha to the boy, as she passed him. “And summer too,” he answered. “We are told,” said Frances, “that this Priory is haunted by ghosts: have you ever seen any?” He shook his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’ please your honour,” he said; “but I never meddle with them, so they never comes after me as I see.” “Are you going to shew us the house?” cried Sir Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do you keep us waiting in this dark passage? go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding towards an inner apartment, knocked at the door, calling to the housekeeper, and telling her that there was company below who wished to take the round of the castle. The old dame courtesying low in a mysterious manner led the way: the boy immediately retreated.

Calantha was much tired; her spirits had undergone a severe shock; and the sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was still called, made an impression upon her she scarcely could account for. The gaiety of the dresses, the fineness of the evening, the chorus of voices laughing and singing as they marched along, indifferent apparently to their future fate—perhaps hardened and insensible to it—all made an impression which it is impossible the description of the scene can give; but long it dwelt in her remembrance. Unused to check herself in any feeling, she insisted upon remaining in front of the Castle, whilst the rest of the party explored its secret mysteries and recesses. “I am sure you are frightened,” said Lord Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have more cause than we: it looks very gloomy without, as well as within.”

They went, and she remained upon the cliff, watching the calm sea, and the boats at a distance, as they passed and repassed from the fair. “And can a few short years thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, “was St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? can one moment of error thus have changed her? Oh it is not possible. Long before the opportunity for evil presented itself, her uncontrouled passions must have misled her, and her imagination, wild and lawless, must have depraved her heart. Alice was innocent: he who first seduced her from peace, deceived her; but St. Clara was not of this character. I understand—I think I understand the feelings which impelled her to evil. Her image haunts me. I tremble with apprehension. Something within seems to warn me, and to say that, if I wander from virtue like her, nothing will check my course—all the barriers, that others fear to overstep, are nothing before me. God preserve me from sin! the sight of St. Clara fills me with alarm. Avondale, where art thou? save me. My course is but just begun: who knows whither the path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned will, has been hitherto, my only law.”

Upon the air at that moment she heard the soft notes of a flute. She listened attentively:—it ceased. There are times when the spirit is troubled—when the mind, after the tumult of dissipated and active life, requires rest and seeks to be alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us so fast, that we hardly know how to bear them; conscience reflects upon every former action; and the heart within trembles, as if in dread of approaching evil. The scene around was calculated to inspire every serious reflection. The awful majesty of the ruined building, ill accorded with the loud laugh and the jests of the merry party now entering its walls. Once those walls had been, perhaps inhabited by beings thoughtless and gay. Where were they now? had they memory of the past? knowledge of the present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes? how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible, be worth either solicitude or anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” said Calantha to herself. “Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves; let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations, are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love.”

So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... Whilst yet indulging these fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western turret, and watching the shadows as they varied on the walls, she again heard the soft notes of music. It seemed like the strains of other times, awakening in the heart remembrances of some former state long passed and changed. Hope, love and fond regret, answered alternately to the call. It was in the season of the year when the flowers bloomed: it was on a spot immortalized in ancient story, for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha turned her eyes upwards and beheld the blue vault of heaven without a cloud. The sea was of that glossy transparency—that shining brightness, the air of that serene calm that, had it been during the wintry months, some might have thought the halcyon was watching upon her nest, and breathing her soft and melancholy minstrelsy through the air.

Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. She felt as if in a dream, and, hastily advancing to the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, she there beheld a youth, for he had not the form or the look of manhood, leaning against the trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon a flute, or breathing, as if from a suffering heart, the sweet melody of his untaught song. He started not when she approached:—he neither saw nor heard her—so light was her airy step, so fixed were his eyes and thoughts. She gazed for one moment upon his countenance—she marked it. It was one of those faces which, having once beheld, we never afterwards forget. It seemed as if the soul of passion had been stamped and printed upon every feature. The eye beamed into life as it threw up its dark ardent gaze, with a look nearly of inspiration, while the proud curl of the upper lip expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet, even mixed with these fierce characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy and dejection shaded and softened every harsher expression. Such a countenance spoke to the heart, and filled it with one vague yet powerful interest—so strong, so undefinable, that it could not easily be overcome.

Calantha felt the power, not then alone, but evermore. She felt the empire, the charm, the peculiar charm, those features—that being must have for her. She could have knelt and prayed to heaven to realize the dreams, to bless the fallen angel in whose presence she at that moment stood, to give peace to that soul, upon which was plainly stamped the heavenly image of sensibility and genius. The air he had played was wild and plaintive: he changed it to one more harsh. She now distinctly heard the words he sung:

This heart has never stoop’d its pride

To slavish love, or woman’s wile;

But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d

Her craftiest art and brightest smile.

This mind has trac’d its own career,

Nor follow’d blind, where others trod;

Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear,

E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God.

Then hope not now to touch with love,

Or in its chains a heart to draw,

All earthly spells have fail’d to move;

And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe:

A heart, that like some mountain vast,

And cold with never-melting snow,

Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast

A look away on aught below.

An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself, had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been left by her companions.

While yet dwelling in thought upon the singular being she had one moment beheld—whilst asking herself what meant this new, this strange emotion, she found another personage by her side, and recognized, through a new disguise, her morning’s acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, otherwise called Cowdel O’Kelly. This rencontre gave an immediate turn to her thoughts. She enquired of him if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey? “No, madam,” he answered, “but of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him to inform her, whether any one resided there who sung in the manner she then described. “Sure, then, I sing myself in that manner,” said the man, “if that’s all; and beside me, there be some who howl and wail, the like you never heard. Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it must have moved your heart to tears.”

“Explain yourself,” said Calantha eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is the same I have seen and heard. Tell me what sorrows have befallen him?” “Sorrows! why enough too, to plague any man. Has he not got the distemper?” “The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did he not catch it sleeping in our dog-kennel, as he stood petrified there one night, kilt by the cold? When my Lord found him, he had not a house to his head then, it’s my belief; but now indeed he’s got one, he’s no wiser, having, as I think, no head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise you how he howls and barks, whenever the moon shines bright. But here be those who fell on me at the fair. In truth I believe they be searching for the like of you.”

CHAPTER IV.

The party from the castle now joined Calantha. They were in evident discomfiture. Their adventures had been rather less romantic than Lady Avondale’s, and consequently had not given them such refined pleasure; for while she was attending to a strain of such enchanting sweetness, they had been forcibly detained in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly listening to very different music.

The housekeeper having led them through the galleries, the ladies, escorted by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney and Sir Everard, turned to examine some of the portraits, fretted cornices and high casements, till the dame who led the way, calling to them, shewed them a large dreary apartment hung with tapestry, and requested them to observe the view from the window. “It is here,” she said, “in this chamber, that John de Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of his enemy and died.” A loud groan, at that moment, proceeded from an inner chamber. “That must be the ghost,” said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. The dame, terrified at Lady Trelawney’s terror, returned the shriek by a piercing yell, rushed from the room, closing the heavy door in haste, which fastened with a spring lock, and left the company not a little disconcerted.

“We are a good number, however,” cried Frances, taking fast hold of her Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. “We certainly can match the ghost in point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant to be confined here till the old woman recovers her senses.” Groans most piteous and terrible interrupted this remark—groans uttered as if in the agony of a soul ill at rest. Sophia grasped Sir Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard looked at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret disdainfully returned the glance. “I fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly have this affair examined. I shall speak to my brother the moment I return: there is possibly some evil concealed which requires investigation.” “Hark! I hear a step,” said Frances. “If I were not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord Trelawney, “faith, I would climb up to that small grated window.”

“I fear no ghosts,” replied Count Gondimar, smiling. “The sun has not set, therefore I defy them thus.—Only take care and hold the stool upon the table, that I may not break my neck.” “What do you see?” “A large room lighted by two candles:—would it were but a lamp.” “Truly this is a fair beginning.—What is the matter now?—why what the devil is the matter?—If you come down so precipitately I cannot support you. Help! the Count is literally fainting.” It was true. “A sudden dizziness—a palpitation”—He only uttered these words and fell; a ghastly paleness overspread his face; the cold damps stood upon his forehead.

“This is the most unfortunate confirmation of the effects of terror upon an evil conscience,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “that ever I beheld. I’ll be bound there is not an Irish or English man here, that would have been so frightened.” “It’s a dizziness, a mere fainting fit,” said Gondimar, “Let me feel his pulse,” cried Sir Everard. “Well, doctor?” “Well, sir, he has no pulse left:—give him air.” “I am better now,” said Gondimar, with a smile, as he revived. “Was I ill enough for this?”—Sir Everard called in. Lord Trelawney’s curiosity engaged him to climb to the grated window; but the candles had been extinguished, probably, for all beyond the window was utter darkness.

Whilst some were assisting the Count, the rest had been vainly endeavouring to open the door. A key was now heard on the outside; and the solemn boy entering, said to Lady Margaret, “I am come to tell your honour, that our dame being taken with the qualms and stericks, is no ways able of shewing you any further into the Priory.” “I trust, however, that you will immediately shew us out of it, Sir,” said Gondimar. “It not being her fault, but her extrame weakness,” continued the boy: “she desires me to hope your honours will excuse her.” “We will certainly excuse her; but,” added Lady Margaret, “I must insist upon knowing from her, or from some of you, the cause of the groans we heard, and what all those absurd stories of ghosts can arise from. I shall send an order for the house to undergo an immediate examination, so you had better tell all you know.”

“Then, indeed, there be no mischief in them groans,” said the boy, who appeared indifferent whether the house were examined or not. “It’s only that gentleman as howls so, who makes them queer noises. I thought ye’d heard something stranger than that. There be more singular noises than he makes, many’s the time.” “Sirrah, inform me who inhabits this d——d Priory?” said Count Gondimar. “What, you’re recovered from your qualms and stericks, I perceive, though the old dame is so ill with them?” “No jesting, Sir Everard. I must sift this affair to the bottom. Come, Sir, answer straightly, who inhabits this Priory?” “Sure, Sir, indeed none as can get a bed in the Abbey,” “You evade, young one: you evade my enquiry: to the point; be plain.” “That he can’t help being,” said Lord Trelawney. “Proceed, Sir, lead us as fast as possible out of these cold damp galleries; but talk as you go.” “Like the cuckoo.” “Lord Trelawney, your jests are mighty pleasant; but I have peculiar reasons for my enquiries.” “And I for my jokes.” “Come, Sirrah, proceed: I shall say no more at present.” “Do you like being here?” said Lady Trelawney, taking up the question. “Well enough,” returned the stupid boy. “I hear,” continued Frances, “there are some who play upon the harp in the night, and sing so, that the country people round, say they are spell-bound.” “Oh musha! there be strange things heard in these here old houses: one must not always believe all one hears.”

Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, were engaged in deep discourse. “I can hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most true—most terribly true,” said Gondimar. “I will question the boy myself,” she cried; “he is subtle with all that appearance of clownish simplicity; but we shall gather something from him. Now, Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, and do you lead these gentlemen and ladies into the fresh air. Lady Augusta says she longs to behold living objects and day-light. I shall soon overtake you. Come here. I think, from what I have gathered, that St. Alvin Priory has not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon family since the year ****: in that case, who has had charge of it?” “None but Mr. Mackenzie and Dame since the old Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality in these parts till now; but about three years and better, the young Lord sent some of his friends here, he being in Italy; and as they only asked for the ould ruin, and did not wish to meddle with the castle, they have done their will there. The steward lets them bide.”

“Have they been here above three years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve not, your honour; for sometimes they’ve all been here, and sometimes there’s not a soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, there’s been no peace for them.” “Can you tell me any of their names?” “All, I believe; for isn’t there one calls himself Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be the master, the real Lord; but he cares not to have it thought: only he’s such a manner with him, one can’t but think it. Then there’s Mister O’Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there’s another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there’s a gentleman cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is Macpherson; then there’s the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O’Grady; and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and revel here.” “And what right have they to be here?” “Why to be sure, then, they’ve not any right at all; that’s what we are all talking of; except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s the reason, for some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s known as to what’s gone with him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! the young master’s here, and the only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” “Ah! sure your honour knows him.”

Having reached the front porch, by the time the boy had gone through his examination, Lady Margaret perceiving O’Kelly, sent for him, and tried, vainly, to make him answer her enquiries more satisfactorily; which not being able to accomplish, she set forth to return home, in an extreme ill humour. Lord Trelawney rallied her about the ghost. Casting an angry glance at him, she refused positively to return home in either of the carriages; saying, she was resolved to walk back across the cliff, the short way. Some of the gentlemen proposed escorting her; but she haughtily refused them, and desired permission to be a few moments left to herself. They, therefore, re-entered their carriages, and returned without any further event.

Calantha was tired and grave during the drive home; and, what may perhaps appear strange, she named not her adventure. “It is himself—it must be.” “Who?” said Lady Mandeville. Confused at having betrayed her own thoughts,—“Young Linden,” she cried, looking out of the carriage; and then feigned sleep, that she might think over again and again on that countenance, that voice, that being, she had one moment seen.

CHAPTER V.

Lady Margaret walking hastily off, had arrived near the Convent of St. Mary, as the last ray of the setting sun blazed in the west, and threw its golden light over the horizon. Close to the convent, is built the chapel where the young Marquis and all the family of Altamonte are interred. It stands upon a high barren cliff, separated by a branch of the sea from the village of Belfont, to which any one may pass by means of the ferry below. To the north of the chapel, as far as the eye can trace, barren heaths and moors, and the distant view of Belfont and St. Alvin Priory, present a cheerless aspect; while the other side displays the rich valley of Delaval, its groves, gardens and lake, with the adjacent wood.

At this spot Lady Margaret arrived, as has been said, at sun-set. She thought she had been alone; but she heard a step closely following her: she turned round, and, to her extreme surprise, beheld a man pursuing her, and, just at that moment, on the point of attaining her. His black brows and eyes were contrasted with his grizzly hair; his laugh was hollow; his dress wild and tawdry. If she stopped for a moment to take breath, he stopped at the same time; if she advanced rapidly, he followed. She heard his steps behind, till passing near the convent he paused, rending the air with his groans, and his clenched fist repeatedly striking his forehead, with all the appearance of maniac fury, whilst with his voice he imitated the howling of the wind.

Terrified, fatigued and oppressed, Lady Margaret fled into the thickest part of the wood, and waited till she conceived the cause of her terror was removed. She soon perceived, however, that the tall figure behind her was waiting for her reappearance. She determined to try the swiftness of her foot, and sought with speed to gain the ferry:—she durst not look behind:—the heavy steps of her pursuer gained upon her:—suddenly she felt his hand upon her shoulder, as, with a shrill voice and loud laugh, he triumphed at having overtaken her. She uttered a piercing shriek; for on turning round she beheld....

His name I cannot at present declare; yet this I will say: it was terrible to her to gaze upon that eye—so hollow, so wild, so fearful was its glance. From the sepulchre, the dead appeared to have arisen to affright her; and, scarce recovering from the dreadful vision, with a faltering step, and beating heart, she broke from that grasp—that cold hand—that dim-fixed eye—and gained with difficulty the hut of the fisherman, who placed her in safety on the other side of the cliff.

The castle bell had already summoned the family; dinner awaited; and the duke having repeatedly enquired for Lady Margaret, was surprised to hear that she had returned home alone and after dusk. The servant, who informed him of this circumstance, said that her ladyship appeared extremely faint and tired; that her women attendants had been called; that they apprehended she was more ill than she would acknowledge. He was yet speaking, when, with a blaze of beauty and even more than her usual magnificence of dress, she entered, apologised for the lateness of her appearance, said the walk was longer than she had apprehended, and, taking her brother’s arm, led the way into the dining room. But soon the effort she had made, proved too great:—her colour changed repeatedly; she complained that the noise distracted her; she scarcely took any part in the conversation, and retiring early, sought a few hours’ repose.

Mrs. Seymour accompanied her out, whilst the rest of those whose curiosity had been much excited in the morning, narrated their morning adventures and enquired eagerly concerning Lord Glenarvon’s character and mode of life. At the mention of his name, the colour rushed into Calantha’s face. Was it himself she had seen?—She was convinced it was. That countenance verified all that she had heard against him: it was a full contradiction to all that Lady Trelawney had spoken in his favour; it expressed a capability of evil—a subtlety that led the eye of a stranger to distrust; but, with all, it was not easily forgotten. The address to the people of Ireland which Lady Avondale had read before with enthusiasm, she read now with a new, an undefinable sensation. She drew also those features—that countenance; and remembered the air he had sung and the tones of his voice.—She seemed to dive into the feelings of a heart utterly different from what she had ever yet observed: a sort of instinct gave her power at once to penetrate into its most secret recesses; nor was she mistaken. She heard, with eager curiosity, every anecdote narrated of him by the country esquires and gentry who dined at the castle; but she felt not surprised at the inconsistencies and absurdities repeated. Others discredited what was said: she believed the worst; yet still the interest she felt was undiminished. It is strange: she loved not—she admired not that countenance; yet, by day, by night, it pursued her. She could not rest, nor write, nor read; and the fear of again seeing it, was greater than the desire of doing so. She felt assured that it was Lord Glenarvon:—there was not a doubt left upon her mind respecting this circumstance. Mrs. Seymour saw that Calantha was pre-occupied: she thought that she was acquainted with the secret which disturbed Lady Margaret—that horrid secret which maddened and destroyed her: for, since her adventure at the Priory, Lady Margaret had been ill.

It was not till after some days retirement, that she sent for Calantha, and when she visited her in her own apartment, she found her silent and trembling. “Where is your boy?” she said. “He sleeps: would you that I should bring him you?” “I do not mean your son: I mean that minion—that gaudy thing, you dress up for your amusement—that fawning insect Zerbellini.” Calantha shuddered; for she knew that a mother could not thus speak of her child without suffering acutely. “Has my pretty Zerbellini done any thing to deserve such unkind words from you? If so, I will chide him for it. Why do you frown? Zerbellini haste here: make your obeisance to Lady Margaret.” The boy approached: Lady Margaret fixed her eyes steadily upon him: the colour rushed into her cheek, then left her pale, as the hue of death. “Oimè si muoja!” exclaimed, Zerbellini: “Eccelenza si muoja;” and he leant forward to support her; but Lady Margaret moved not.

Many moments passed in entire silence. At last, starting as if from deep reflection, “Calantha” she said, “I know your heart too well to doubt its kindness:—the presence of this child, will cause the misery of your father.” “Of my father!” “Do you not guess wherefore? I read his feelings yesterday: and can you my child be less quick in penetrating the sentiments of those you love? do you not perceive that Zerbellini is of the very age and size—your lost—and—lamented brother would have been? ... and certainly not unlike the duchess.” She hesitated—paused—recovered herself. “I would not for the world have you suggest this to a human being. I would not appear to have said—what you, out of an affectionate regard might—should—have considered.”—“I am astonished: you quite amaze me,” replied Calantha; yet she too well guessed her feelings.

You heard your father yesterday say, how necessary it was for him to attend the general meeting at Belfast: he flies us to avoid this boy—the likeness—in short, oblige me, place him at the garden cottage, or at the Rector of Belfont’s—he will attend to him. I am told you mean to leave your children with Mr. Challoner: if so, he might likewise keep this boy. His strong resemblance—his age—his manner—have given me already the acutest pain.—My brother will never demand any sacrifice of you;—but I, Lady Avondale,—I solicit it.—“Shall I be refused”? “Dearest aunt, can you ask this? Zerbellini shall be immediately sent from the castle.” “Oh no: such precipitate removal would excite curiosity.” “Well then, allow me to place him, as you say, under the care of the Rector of Belfont and his wife—or—” “But how strange—why—did you never observe this before?”

“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a hollow tone, “it is the common talk: every one observes it: every eye fixes itself upon him, and seems to—to—to—reproach—to-morrow—morn—to-morrow morning, I must quit this place—business of importance calls me away—I hope to see you shortly: I shall return as soon as possible—perhaps I shall not go.—The trifle I now suggest, is solely for my brother’s sake.—If you mention one word of this to any one, the sacrifice I ask will lose its value. Above all, if the Count Gondimar is made a confidant.” “Fear not: I shall request as of myself, that Zerbellini may be placed with my little son: but you cannot think how much you surprise me. My father has seen the boy so often; has spoken so frequently with him; has appeared so perfectly at his ease.”

“The boy,” said Lady Margaret, “is the living picture of—in short I have dreamt a dreadful dream. Shall I confess my weakness, Calantha: I dreamt last night, that I was sitting with a numerous and brilliant assembly, even in this very castle; and of a sudden, robed in the white vestments of an angel, that boy appeared—I saw his hand closely stealing behind—he had a dagger in it—oh it made me sick—and coming towards me—I mean towards your father—he stabbed him.—These phantasies shew an ill constitution—but, for a short time, send the child away, and do not expose my weakness—do not love. I have many sorrows—my nerves are shattered—bear with me—you know not, and God forbid you should ever know, what it is to labour under the pressure of guilt—guilt? aye,—and such as that brow of innocence, that guileless generous heart, never can comprehend.” “My aunt, for God sake, explain yourself.” Lady Margaret smiled. “Oh not such guilt either, as to excite such looks as these: only I have suffered my heart to wander, child; and I have been punished.”

Calantha was less surprised at this conversation, from remembering the secret Gondimar had communicated, than she otherwise must have been; but she could not understand what had given rise to this paroxysm of despair at that particular moment. A singular circumstance now occurred, which occasioned infinite conjecture to all around. Every morning, as soon as it was light, and every evening at dusk, a tall old man in a tattered garb, with a wild and terrible air, seated himself in front of the castle windows, making the most lamentable groans, and crying out in an almost unintelligible voice, “Woe, on woe, to the family of Altamonte.” The Duke was no sooner apprised of this circumstance, than he ordered the supposed maniac to be taken up; but Lady Margaret implored, entreated and even menaced, till she obtained permission from her brother to give this wretched object his liberty.

Such an unusual excess of charity—such sudden, and violent commiseration of a being who appeared to have no other view than the persecution and annoyance of her whole family, was deemed strange; but when they no longer were molested by the presence of the fanatic, who had denounced their ruin, they ceased to converse about him, and soon the whole affair was forgotten. Calantha indeed remembered it; but a thousand new thoughts diverted her attention, and a stronger interest led her from it.

CHAPTER VI.

The Rector of Belfont had willingly permitted the little Zerbellini to be placed under his wife’s care. The distance from thence to the castle was short; and Calantha had already sent her children there for the benefit of sea-bathing. On returning one day thence, she called upon Gerald Mac Allain, who had absented himself from the castle, ever since Mr. Buchanan had appeared there. She found him mournfully employed in looking over some papers and drawings, which he had removed to his own habitation. Upon seeing Lady Avondale he arose, and pointing to the drawings, which she recognized: “Poor Alice,” he said, “these little remembrances tell me of happier days, and make me sad; but when I see you, my Lady, I forget my sorrows.” Linden’s cottage was at a very little distance from Gerald Mac Allain’s. Calantha now informed him that she had met young Linden at the fair, and had wished to speak to him; but that she did not immediately remember him, he was so altered. Gerald said “it was no use for her to speak to him, or for any one else, he was so desperate-like; and,” added he, “Alice’s misconduct has broke all our hearts: we never meet now as formerly; we scarce dare look at each other as we pass.”

“Tell me, Gerald,” said Calantha, “since you have spoken to me on this melancholy subject, what is the general opinion about Alice? Has Linden no idea of what has become of her?—had he no suspicion, no doubt of her, till the moment when she fled?” “Oh yes, my Lady,” said the old man, “my poor girl estranged herself from him latterly; and when Linden was obliged to leave her to go to the county of Leitrim for Mr. O’Flarney, during his absence, which lasted six weeks, he received a letter from her, expressing her sorrow that she never could belong to him. Upon his return he found her utterly changed; and in a few weeks after, she declined his further visits; only once again consenting to see him. It was on the very morning before my Lady Margaret conveyed her away from the castle.”

“But did you never suspect that things were going on ill before?—did Linden make no attempt to see her at the Doctor’s? It seems strange that no measures should have been taken before it was too late.” “Alas! my dear young lady, you do not know how difficult it is to suspect and chide what we love dearly. I had given up my child into other hands; she was removed entirely from my humble sphere; and whilst I saw her happy, I could not but think her deserving; and when she became otherwise, she was miserable, and it was not the moment to shew her any severity. Indeed, indeed, it was impossible for me to mistrust or chide one so above me as my Alice. As to young Linden, it turned his mind. I walked to his father’s house, ill as I was, just to shake hands with him and see him, as soon as I was told of what had passed. The old gentleman, Cyrel’s father, could not speak. The mother wept as soon as she beheld me; but there was not one bitter word fell from either, though they knew it would prove the ruin of the young man, their son, and perhaps his death.”

“From that time, till the present,” continued Gerald, “I seldom see Linden; he always avoids me. He altered very much, and took to hard drinking and bad company; his mind was a little shaken; he grew very slack at his duty; and listed, we suppose, with that same gang, which seduced my two poor boys from their allegiance and duty. He was reprimanded and punished by his commander; but it seems all one, for Mr. Challoner was telling me, only a few days since, that in the last business there with Squire O’Flarney, Linden was taken notice of by the justice. There’s no one can save him, he seems so determined-like on his own ruin; and they say, it’s the cause why the old father is on his death-bed at this present time. There is no bitterness of heart like that which comes from thankless children. They never find out, till it is too late, how parents loved them:—but it was not her fault—no—I don’t blame her—(he knit his brow)—no—I don’t blame her.—Mr. Buchanan is no child of our own house, though he fills the place of that gracious infant which it pleased the Lord to take to himself. Mr. Buchanan is the son of a strange father:—I cannot consider him as one of our own—so arbitrary:—but that’s not the thing.”

“Gerald,” said Calantha, “you are not sure that Buchanan is the culprit: we should be cautious in our judgments.” “Oh, but I am sure, and I care not to look on him; and Linden, they say, menaces to revenge on the young lord, my wrongs and his own; but his old father begs him for God’s sake to be peaceable. Perhaps, my Lady, you will look on the poor gentleman: what though ’tis a dying man—you’ll be gratified to see him, there is such a calm upon his countenance.” “Must he die?” “Why, he’s very precarious-like:—but your noble husband, the young Lord Avondale, is very good to him—he has done all a man and a soldier could do to save him.” “I too will call,” said Calantha, to hide from Gerald how much she was affected; “and, as to you, I must entreat as a favour, that you will return to the castle: to-morrow is Harry’s birth-day; and it will not be a holiday, my father says, if you are not, as you were wont to be, at the head of the table with all the tenants.” “I will come,” said Gerald, “if it were only on account of my Lord’s remembering me: and all the blessings of the land go with him, and you, and his noble house, till the end of time, and with the young Lord of Glenarvon beside, who saved Roy and Conal from a shameful death—that he did.”

“But you forget,” said Calantha, smiling, “that, by your own account, he was the first to bring them there.” “By my heart, but he’s a noble spirit for all that; and he has my good wishes, and those of many beside.” As he spoke, his eye kindled with enthusiasm. Calantha’s heart beat high: she listened with eager interest. “He’s as generous as our own,” continued he; “and if he lets his followers take a pig or two from that rogue there, Squire Flarney, does not he give half he has to those in distress? If I could ever meet him face to face, I’d tell him the same; but we never know when he’s among us; for sure, there’s St. Clara the prophetess, he went to see her once, they say, and she left her aunt the Abbess, and the convent, and all the nuns, and went off after him, as mad as the rest. Och! you’d bless yourself to see how the folks crowd about him at the season, but they’re all gone from these parts now, in hopes of saving Linden, I’m told; for you know, I suppose, that he’s missing, and if he’s deserted, it’s said they are sure to shoot him on account of the troubles.”

“Three times there have been meetings in that cleft there,” continued Gerald, pointing towards the Wizzard’s Glen: “it was that was the first undoing of Miss St. Clare: they tell me she’s all for our being delivered from our tyrants; and she prophecies so, it would do you good to hear her. Oh, they move along, a thousand at a time, in a silence would surprise you—just in the still night, and you can scarce hear them tread as they pass; but I know well when they’re coming, and there is not one of us who live here about the town, would betray them, though the reward offered is very stupendous.”

“But see, here are some of the military coming” ... “That officer is General Kennedy,” said Lady Avondale, approaching towards him: “he is not a tyrant at least.” As she said this, she bowed to him, for she knew him well. He often dined at the Castle. He was saying a few words to her upon common uninteresting topics, when, a soldier beckoning to him, two horsemen appeared.—“He’s found,” said one: “there is no doubt of his guilt; and twenty other names are on the list.” “I trust in God it is not Linden, of whom you are speaking,” said Calantha. General Kennedy made no answer: he only bowed to her, as if to excuse himself; and retired.

Calantha observed a vast number of people assembled on the road, close to the village. Gerald Mac Allain could scarcely support himself. She enquired what they were waiting for. “To see the deserters,” they answered. It was women, children, parents who spoke: some wept aloud; others stood in silent anguish; many repeated the name of him in whom they took deepest interest, asking if his was of the number. Linden’s she heard most frequently. “Ill luck to the monsters!—ill luck to the men of blood!” was vociferated the whole way she went. “This will kill the old man,” said Gerald: “it will be his death: he has been all night fearing it, ever since Linden has been missing.”

The crowd, seeing Calantha, approached in all directions. “Oh beg our king, your father, to save them,” said one: “Jesus reward you:” and they knelt and prayed to her. She was too much affected to answer. Some of the officers approached her, and advised her to retire. “The crowd will be immense,” they said: “your Ladyship had better not remain to witness this heartbreaking scene.” “Twenty names are on the list,” continued the officer, “all deserted, as soon as Linden did. Mercy, in this instance, will be weakness: too much has already been shewn.”

CHAPTER VII.

Calantha returned home with a heavy heart; and spoke to Lord Avondale and her father. They both intreated her not to interfere. The moment indeed was alarming and eventful; whatever measures were necessary, it was not for her to judge; and while enthusiasm in the cause of liberty beguiled some, it was, she felt it was, the duty of a woman to try and soften and conciliate every thing. Linden’s fate was peculiarly unfortunate, and Lord Avondale generously interested himself for him. Had money been able to purchase his release, there was no sum he would not have offered. They heard with the deepest regret, that it was a case where mercy could not be shewn, without apprehending the most fatal effects from it. Linden and Seaford had together entered the militia not above three years back. Linden, an only son, was now in his twentieth year, and Seaford, was scarce eighteen. Their example was deemed the more necessary for the general safety, as so many in the same regiment had deserted upon hearing of their disaffection. In the month of December last, they had all taken the treasonable oaths; and their rash conduct and riotous proceedings had already more than once incurred the severity of the law.

Linden and two others had been accused, and afterwards pardoned on a former occasion: their names had been likewise erased from the list of offenders. This second breach of faith was deemed unpardonable. Mercy, it was supposed, would but appear like weakness and alarm; all intercessions were utterly fruitless; they were tried, found guilty and condemned. Linden was so much beloved by his companions, that several attempts were made, even by his fellow-soldiers and comrades, to rescue him from the hands of justice; but he disdained to be so released; and when he heard of the tumult his condemnation had excited, he asked his captain’s permission to be spared the last bitter conflict of walking through his own native town. The request was denied him.

On the 18th of May, at the hour of four, the time appointed to assemble, twenty-three men, who had taken part in the riot, were called out. The regiment, after this, slowly advanced in solemn procession through the town, followed by the cavalry, and all the horse artillery. The streets were thronged—the windows were crowded—not a word was spoken; but the sobs and cries of friends, parents and old acquaintance, who came out to take a last farewell, were heard. After passing through Belfont, they turned to the high road, and continued the march until they reached the plains above Inis Tara, about two miles from the town.

Linden and Seaford were then brought forward with a strong escort. They continued silent and firm to the last. Just as the pause was made, before the command was given that they should kneel, the mother of Linden, supported by Mac Allain, forced her way through the crowd, and implored permission to take a last farewell of her son. The officer desired that she might pass; but the crowd was so great that it was with difficulty she could arrive at the spot:—when there, she only once shook hands with the young man, and said she had brought him his father’s blessing:—he made no answer, but appeared very deeply affected. He had shewn the most deliberate courage till that hour. It now forsook him, and he trembled excessively.

“Thank God I am spared this,” said his companion: “I have no mother left.” The signal was immediately given to fire; and the party prepared to do their duty. A troop of horse at that moment, in the green uniform of the national guards, appeared from an ambush, and a desperate struggle ensued. The mutineers set up a terrible yell during the combat. The inhabitants, both of the town and country, joined them in every direction. Lord Avondale and many other officers present came up to the assistance of General Kennedy’s small force, and soon restored order. The party of horse were put to flight. The colonel of the regiment immediately ordered a court-martial; and three prisoners, who were taken with Seaford and Linden, were executed on the spot.

In the skirmish, the young man who headed the party of horse, and exposed himself most eagerly to rescue Linden, was wounded in the left arm: his person was described; the circumstance was mentioned; and a high reward was offered for his head. It was supposed by many that he was Lord Glenarvon.

The severity of these proceedings struck an immediate panic throughout the disaffected. The inhabitants of the town of Belfont arrayed themselves in black. A long and mournful silence succeeded; and few there were who penetrated, under the veil of submissive acquiescence, the spirit of rebellion and vengeance, which was preparing to burst forth. Gerald Mac Allain, forgetful of his wrongs, appeared at the castle; Lady St. Clare wrote the most penitent letter to Sir Everard; and with her two daughters Jessica and Laura, entreated permission to return. Every one of the tradesmen and farmers of any respectability took their names from the new club, opposite Sir Everard’s house; and a sort of mournful tranquillity and terror seemed to reign throughout.

A few days after this melancholy transaction, Linden’s mother died; and as Calantha was returning from Belfont, she met the crowd who had followed her to the grave. They all passed her in silence, nor gave her one salutation, or smile of acknowledgment, as on other occasions; yet they were her father’s own tenants, and most of their countenances she remembered from childhood. When she mentioned this circumstance at the castle, she was informed that Lord Avondale’s having taken an active part against the party who had come forward to save the deserters, was the cause of this.

To such heights, at this time, was the spirit of party carried. The whole kingdom, indeed, was in a state of ferment and disorder. Complaints were made, redress was claimed, and the people were everywhere mutinous and discontented. Even the few of their own countrymen, who possessed the power, refused to attend to the grievances and burthens of which the nation generally complained, and sold themselves for hire, to the English government. Numerous absentees had drawn great part of the money out of the country; oppressive taxes were continued; land was let and sub-let to bankers and stewards of estates, to the utter ruin of the tenants; and all this caused the greatest discontent.

Some concessions were now granted in haste—some assurances of relief made; but the popular spirit of indignation, once excited, was not to be allayed by the same means which had, perhaps, prevented its first rise. The time for conciliation was past. A foreign enemy lost no opportunity of adding to the increasing inward discontent. The friends of government had the power of the sword and the weight of influence on their side; but the enemies were more numerous, more desperate, more enthusiastic. The institution of political clubs, the combination of the United Irishmen, for the purpose of forwarding a brotherhood of affection, a communion of rights, amongst those of every different persuasion, even a military force was now attempted; and the constant cry of all the inhabitants of either town or country was a total repeal of the penal statutes, the elective franchise, reform of parliament, and commutation of tythes.

Whilst, however, the more moderate with sincerity imagined, that they were upholding the cause of liberty and religion; the more violent, who had emancipated their minds from every restraint of prejudice or principle, did not conceal that the equalization of property, and the destruction of rank and titles was their real object. The revolutionary spirit was fast spreading, and since the appearance of Lord Glenarvon, at Belfont, the whole of the county around was in a state of actual rebellion.

CHAPTER VIII.

Glenarvon seemed, however, to differ in practice from his principles; for whilst many of those who had adopted the same language had voluntarily thrown off their titles, and divided their property amongst their partizans, he made a formal claim for the titles his grandfather had forfeited; and though he had received no positive assurance that his claim would be considered, he called himself by that name alone, and insisted upon his followers addressing him in no other manner. This singular personage, of whom so many, for a long period, had heard the strangest reports, whom many imagined to be dead, and who seemed, whenever he appeared, to make no light impression upon all those with whom he conversed, had passed his youth in a foreign country, and had only twice visited the abode of his ancestors until the present year.

It was amidst the ruins of ancient architecture, and the wild beauties of Italian scenery, that his splendid genius and uncommon faculties were first developed. Melancholy, unsocial, without a guide, he had centered upon himself every strong interest, and every aspiring hope. Dwelling ever in the brilliant regions of fancy, his soul turned with antipathy from the ordinary cares of life. He deeply felt the stigma that had been cast upon his family in the person of his grandfather, who, from the favourite of a changing prince, had become the secret accomplice of a bloody conspiracy. The proofs of his guilt were clear; his death was a death of shame; and the name of traitor was handed down with the coronet to which his only surviving heir so eagerly aspired.

By his nearest friends he was now called Glenarvon; and so jealous did he appear of his rank, that he preferred disguise, straits and difficulties, to a return to his own country without those titles, and that fortune, which he considered as his due. One object of interest succeeded another; a life of suspense was preferred to apathy; and the dark counsels of unprincipled associates, soon led one, already disloyal in heart, to the very brink of destruction. Flushed with the glow of intemperate heat, or pale with the weariness of secret woe, he vainly sought in a career of pleasure, for that happiness which his restless mind prevented him from enjoying.

Glenarvon had embraced his father’s profession, wherein he had distinguished himself by his courage and talent; but to obey another was irksome; and the length of time which must elapse before he could obtain the command of a ship, soon disgusted him with the service. He plunged, therefore, into all the tumults of dissipation, to which a return to Rome and Florence invited him.

He gave up his days and nights to every fierce excess; and soon the high spirit of genius was darkened, the lofty feelings of honor were debased, and the frame and character sunk equally dejected under the fatigue of vigils and revels, in which reason and virtue had no share. Intervals of gloom succeeded, till, stimulated again, his fallen countenance betrayed a disappointed heart; and he fled from unjoyous feasts and feverish hopes to lowliness and sullen despair. He had been wronged, and he knew not how to pardon: he had been deceived, and he existed henceforward, but to mislead others. His vengeance was dark and sudden—it was terrible. His mind, from that hour, turned from the self-approving hope, the peace of a heart at rest.

The victim of his unfortunate attachment had fallen a prey to the revengeful jealousy of an incensed husband; but her death was not more sudden, more secret, than that of the tyrant who had destroyed her. Every one knew by whose hand the fair and lovely Fiorabella had perished; but no eye bore witness against the assassin, who, in the depths of night had immediately revenged her loss. The murderer and the murdered were both alike involved in the impenetrable veil of mystery. The proud and noble family who had been injured, had neither the power, nor the inclination to seek redress. Lord Glenarvon was seen no more at Florence: he had been the cause of this tragic scene. It afflicted his generous heart when he reflected upon the misery he had occasioned; but not even his bitterest enemy could have suspected him of deeper guilt. His youth was untainted by the suspicion of crime, and the death of Giardini, with greater show of justice, was affixed to another, and a more dangerous hand.

Fascinated with the romantic splendour of ideal liberty, and intent upon flying from the tortures of remembrance, which the death of his mistress, and the unpleasant circumstances attending Giardini’s murder must naturally excite, he had visited Ireland in the spring of the year ..., and had remained there some months, unknown even to his adherents, who flocked around him, attracted by his eloquence, and easily won by his address. One only victim returned with him in his voluntary exile, from his native land. One only miserable enthusiast devoted herself to his fortunes, and accompanied him in his flight. O’Kelly, the son of a tenant of his father’s recognized his youthful lord, and early ingratiated himself into his favour.

With this sole attendant, and the unhappy girl who had renounced her country and her virtue for his sake, he departed, nor was seen again at St. Alvin Priory till the present year.

Indeed the report of his death was so often affirmed, that when he again presented himself, so changed in manner and in form, before his adherents, they questioned one with another whether he was in reality their lord. “I am not what I seem,” he would frequently say; “I am not him whom you take me for.”

Strange things were rumoured concerning this Glenarvon. There was a man in his service who had returned with him, who spoke to none, who answered no enquiries, who had never before been seen with him in his former visits. It was said that he knew many things if he durst but utter them. All feared and avoided this man. His name was Macpherson, the same whom Gondimar had seen in town; but all felt irresistably attracted by his youthful master. Glenarvon’s projects—his intentions were now but too generally suspected;—it was a critical moment; and his presence at that particular time, in Ireland, occasioned many conjectures.

CHAPTER IX.

In this his second visit to his native country, Glenarvon desired his servant, O’Kelly, to find a person of respectability who would take charge of a child, then only in his second year. Clare of Costolly was his name; but whether the boy was the son of Lord Glenarvon, or some little favourite who, for the moment, had obtained his interest, none knew, or durst enquire.

Indeed, the impenetrable mystery which surrounded Lord Glenarvon was involved in a deeper shade of concealment at this time, than at any former period; for scarce had he set foot in his new habitation, when a singular and terrific inmate appeared also at the Priory—a maniac! who was however welcomed with the rest of the strange assemblage, and a room immediately allotted for his reception. In vain the affrighted nurse remonstrated; the maniac’s eyes were fixed upon the child, with frantic wildness; and Glenarvon, deaf to her entreaties, permitted Clare to attend upon the unwelcome stranger and saw him in his arms without alarm.

Even in his most dreadful paroxysms, when all others were afraid of approaching him, Glenarvon would calmly enter into his chamber, would hear his threats unawed,—would gaze on him, as if it gave him delight to watch the violence of misguided passion; to hear the hollow laugh of ideotsy, or fix the convulsed eye of raving insanity.

That which was disgusting or terrific to man’s nature, had no power over Glenarvon. He had looked upon the dying and the dead; had seen the tear of agony without emotion; had heard the shriek of despair, and felt the hot blood as it flowed from the heart of a murdered enemy, nor turned from the sickening sight—even the storms of nature could not move Glenarvon. In the dark night, when the tempest raged around and the stormy ocean beat against the high impending cliffs, he would venture forth, would listen to the roaring thunder without fear, and watch the forked lightning as it flashed along the sky.

The rushing winds but seemed to sooth his perturbed spirit; and the calm of his brow remained unaltered in every changing scene. Yet it was the calm of hopeless despair, when passion, too violent to shew itself by common means, concentrates itself at once around the heart, and steels it against every sentiment of mercy.

Who had dared to enquire of that eye the meaning of its glance? or who had trusted to the music of that soft voice, when it breathed forth vows of tenderness and love? or who, believing in the light of life which beamed upon that countenance, had considered the sportive jests of fancy—the brilliant sallies of that keen wit as the overflowing testimony of a heart at rest? None—none believed or trusted in Glenarvon.—Yet thousands flocked around and flattered him; amidst this band of ruffians, this lawless unprincipled gang, the recluse of Glanaa—the lovely, but misguided Elinor was now too often seen. She was the spirit and soul of the merry party: her wit enlivened; her presence countenanced; her matchless beauty attracted. Scarce in her sixteenth year, the pride of her family, the wonder and ornament of the whole country, she forsook her solitude and hopes of heaven—she left the aunt, who had fostered and cherished her from childhood, to become avowedly the mistress of Glenarvon. On horse, or on foot, she accompanied him. In the attire of a boy she unblushingly followed his steps! his former favourites were never even named, or alluded to—his present mistress occupied all his attention.

When St. Clara described the sufferings of her country, every heart melted to compassion, or burned with indignation; but when her master, when Glenarvon played upon her harp, or sung the minstrelsy of the bards of other times, he inspired the passions which he felt, and inflamed the imagination of his hearers to deeds of madness—to acts of the most extravagant absurdity. Crowds followed upon his steps; yet it was melancholy to see them pass—so fair, so young and yet so utterly hardened and perverted. Who could behold her, and not compassionate her fate? What was to become of her when Glenarvon had ceased to love; and did he love?—Never: in the midst of conquests, his heart was desolate; in the fond embrace of mutual affection, he despised the victim of his art.

Of all the friends, flatterers and followers, he had gained by his kindness, and lost by his caprice, not one remained to fill, in his bosom, that craving void which he himself had made. Wherever he appeared, new beauty attracted his worship, and yielded to his power; yet he valued not the transient possession, even whilst smiling upon the credulous being who had believed in his momentary affection. Even whilst soothing her with promises and vows, which he meant not for one hour to perform, he was seeking the means of extricating himself from her power—he was planning his escape from the thraldom of her charms? Was he generous? Aye, and prodigal by nature; but there was a part of his character which ill accorded with the rest: it was a spirit of malignity if wounded, which never rested till it had satisfied its vengeance. An enemy, he could have pardoned and have loved; but he knew not how to bear with or forgive a friend.

His actions appeared the immediate result of impulse; but his passions were all subject to his controul, and there was a systematic consistency even in his most irregular conduct. To create illusions, and raise affection in the breasts of others, has been the delight of many: to dispel the interest he had created was Glenarvon’s care. Love he had studied as an art: he knew it in all its shades and gradations; for he had traced its progress in his own and many another breast. Of knowledge and wisdom, he had drank deep at the fountain head, nor wanted aught that could give liveliness and variety to his discourse.

He was, besides, a skilful flatterer, and knew in what weak part, he best might apply his power. But the sweetness of his praise, could only be exceeded by the bitterness of his contempt—the venomed lash of his deadly wit.

That in which Glenarvon most prided himself—that in which he most excelled, was the art of dissembling. He could turn and twine so near the truth, with more than Machiavelian subtlety, that none could readily detect his falsehood; and when he most appeared frank and unguarded, then he most deceived. Falsehood and craft were stamped upon his countenance, written upon his brow, marked in his words, and scarce concealed beneath the winning smile which oftentimes played upon his lips.

“If I could but see him once,” said Lady Augusta, “I should be satisfied; but to hear his name from morning till night—to have every fault, folly, nay even crime attributed to him by one party, and every virtue, charm and fascination given him by the other,—it is enough to distract women in general, and me in particular. Is there no mercy for curiosity? I feel I shall do something absurd, extremely absurd, if an interview is not contrived.” “Nothing can be more easy,” said the Duke: “you shall dine with him, at the next public day. I have already sent him a card of invitation.” “Under what title?” “To Captain de Ruthven.” “He will assuredly not come,” said Lady Trelawney. “That I think probable,” said the Duke, laughing. “The malicious affirm that his arm is in a sling; and if so, his appearance just at present would be unwise.” The conversation soon took another turn; and Lord Avondale entering, informed Calantha that he had a letter from Sir Richard, and must immediately join him at Cork.

CHAPTER X.

Admiral Buchanan and Sir Richard Mowbray had, in the month of January, returned to England, where they had received the thanks of the Lower House for their distinguished conduct and assistance on the memorable 4th of June. The ships had been now ordered into harbour to undergo some trifling repairs, and the Admirals had been commanded to take their station at Cork. The enthusiasm with which the heroes were greeted on their return, did honour to the feelings of the Irish nation. They were invited to every house in the neighbourhood; and fêtes and balls were given to shew them respect. The Duke and Lord Avondale went forward to receive them.

Commodore Emmet, an old acquaintance who resided at Cork, sent to offer his house, not only to them, but to the whole party at Castle Delaval; if they could make up their minds to accept Sir George’s invitation, and dine on board the Royal William on the 4th of June, in commemoration of that day and its success. There were few, if any, of those invited who refused; but none accepted the invitation with so much enthusiasm as Calantha. The letter from Sir George Buchanan to Lady Margaret, was as follows:—

“Cork, June 1st, 1796.

“My dear Lady Margaret,

“In answer to a letter which I received this morning, dated May 29th, ult. I request the honour of your Ladyship’s company on board the Royal William, now in harbour at the Cove. The Duke and the rest of his family and party have already promised me this favour, and I am not prepared to accept from yourself any denial on account of those circumstances to which you allude, and which, I entreat you sincerely to believe are, on my part, utterly forgotten. Let me request you, then, to banish from your memory every trifling disagreement, and to meet me, upon an occasion so flattering as is the present to my feelings and those of our friends, with the good-will and kindness you will ever find in the heart of your Ladyship’s most obedient and affectionate brother and servant,

“George Buchanan.”

In consequence of this invitation, Lady Margaret and the rest of the Duke’s family set out on the morning of the 3rd, and arrived about the hour of dinner at Commodore Emmet’s—a large brick building about a quarter of a mile beyond the town of Cork. The Duke and Lord Avondale, and their loquacious host, had been waiting some time, it appeared, in much anxiety. The latter gave to each the most cordial welcome; boasted that he could lodge them all; talked incessantly, as he shewed them to their apartments; entreated them not to dress, as dinner awaited; and left them, assuring each that they were the exact image of the Duke, whom he concluded to be, like the Patriarchs of old, the father of the whole company. His voice murmured on as he descended the stairs, whilst Cassandra and Eloise, his daughters, appeared to offer their services in his place.

The dining-room was small; the guests were numerous; the table was crowded with huge pieces of meat: the Commodore talked incessantly; his children, his servants, his brother, seemed all gifted alike with the same spirit of activity: it was incessant bustle, hurry, noise and contrivance. Music, cards, and tricks of every kind were displayed during the evening; and in the morning, long before the sun had arisen, carpenters, mechanics, ship-builders, and cooks, awoke the guests by the noise of their respective pursuits.

Sir George Buchanan had sent to request the Duke’s company at an early hour on the morrow. The day proved fair, the boats were ready, and they set forth on their expedition in high spirits. Many ships and smaller vessels were spread over the harbour; and bands of music played as they passed. The beauty of the cove of Cork, the trees bending to the water side, the fortress, and the animated picture which a mercantile city presents,—delighted all. But feelings of enthusiasm kindled, in every heart, when they approached the Royal William, and beheld its venerable commander. The sea was rough, and the spray of the waves was at times blown over the boat. The Miss Emmets thought of their new dresses; Sophia of danger; and Calantha of the glory of thus proudly riding over the billowy ocean.

Lady Margaret, though silent, was more deeply agitated:—her mind recurred in thought to scenes long past. She was now to behold, after a lapse of many years, her husband’s brother, whom she had treated with the most marked indignity, and for whom she had vainly attempted to feel contempt. He had ever conducted himself towards her with courteous, though distant civility; but had yet shewn the most decided disapprobation of her conduct. When she had last beheld him, she was in the full splendour of youth and beauty, surrounded by an admiring world, and triumphant in the possession of every earthly enjoyment. Time had but little changed the majesty of her form; but something worse than time had stamped upon her countenance an expression never to be effaced; while her marked brow assumed an air of sullen pride and haughty reserve: as she ascended from the boat into the ship, she gazed upon the long forgotten features of her brother; and she seemed to be deeply affected. Age had bleached his once dark locks; but he was still unimpaired in mind and form. He bent lowly down to receive her: she felt him clasp her to his bosom; and, overcome by this unexpected kindness, her tears streamed upon his hand:—he, too, could have wept; but, recovering himself, with a commanding air, he came forward to receive his other guests.

The ship was in the highest order; the feast prepared was magnificent; and when the Duke stood up and bowed with grace to drink the Admiral’s health, the sailors cheered, and the toast was repeated from the heart by every individual. But he, though greatly affected and pleased at the homage shewn him, bowed to the Duke, returning him the compliment; and afterwards, drinking the health of Sir Richard Mowbray, said, that he owed every thing to his assistance—that, in the glorious action of the 4th, his ship had conferred new honours on the British Navy, and he had received the commendation of Admiral Howe.

At that name, every individual arose. The name of Howe was repeated from mouth to mouth with an expression of exalted admiration; his applauses were spoken by every tongue; and many an eye that had never shewn weakness, till that moment, filled with tears at the name of their venerable, their dear commander. Captain Emmet, during this scene, was employed in eating voraciously of whatever he could lay hands on. Miss Emmet, who thought it a great honor to converse with a lord, had seated herself by the side of Lord Avondale, narrating her own adventures, freely stating her own opinions, and pleased with herself and every one present; while her father likewise talked at the other end of the table, and Admiral Buchanan laughed heartily, but good humouredly at his friend’s oppressive eloquence.

Suddenly Lord Avondale turned to Calantha and asked her if she were ill? She knew not, she could not define the sort of pain and joy she felt at that moment. Her eyes had long been fixed upon one who took no part in this convivial scene—whose pale cheek and brow expressed much of disappointed hope, or of joyless indifference. He had that youthful, nay boyish air, which rendered this melancholy the more singular.—It was not affected, though his manner had in it nothing of nature; but the affectation was rather that of assumed respect for those he cared not for, and assumed interest in topics to which he hardly attended, than the reverse. He even affected gaiety; but the heart’s laugh never vibrated from his lips; and, if he uttered a sentence, his eye seemed to despise the being who listened with avidity to his observation. It was the same,—oh! yes, it was, indeed, the same, whom Calantha had one moment beheld at St. Alvin Priory.

His face, his features, were the same, it is true; but a deeper shade of sadness now overspread them; and sorrow and disappointment had changed the glow of boyish health to a more pallid hue. What! in a month? it will be said.—A day might, perhaps, have done it. However, in the present instance, it was not as if some sudden and defined misfortune had opprest the soul by a single blow: it was rather as if every early hope had long been blighted; and every aspiring energy had been destroyed. There was nothing pleasing to gaze upon: it was mournful; but it excited not sympathy, nor confidence. The arm was in a sling—the left arm. There could be no doubt that he was the hero who had risked his life to save young Linden. Was it, indeed, Lord Glenarvon whom Calantha beheld? Yes, it was himself.—Face to face she stood before him, and gazed with eager curiosity upon him.

Never did the hand of the Sculptor, in the full power of his art, produce a form and face more finely wrought, so full of soul, so ever-varying in expression. Was it possible to behold him unmoved? Oh! was it in woman’s nature to hear him, and not to cherish every word he uttered? And, having heard him, was it in the human heart ever again to forget those accents, which awakened every interest, and quieted every apprehension? The day, the hour, that very moment of time was marked and destined. It was Glenarvon—it was that spirit of evil whom she beheld; and her soul trembled within her, and felt its danger.

Calantha was struck suddenly, forcibly struck; yet the impression made upon her, was not in Glenarvon’s favour. The eye of the rattle-snake, it has been said, once fixed upon its victim, overpowers it with terror and alarm: the bird, thus charmed, dares not attempt its escape; it sings its last sweet lay; flutters its little pinions in the air; then falls like a shot before its destroyer, unable to fly from his fascination. Calantha bowed, therefore with the rest, pierced to the heart at once by the maddening power that destroys alike the high and low; but she liked not the wily turn of his eye, the contemptuous sneer of his curling lip, the soft passionless tones of his voice;—it was not nature, or if it was nature, not that to which she had been accustomed;—not the open, artless expression of a guileless heart.

Starting from the kind of dream in which she had for one moment been wrapped, she now looked around her. The affectation with which she veiled the interest she felt, is scarce accountable.

Lord Glenarvon was the real object of her thoughts, yet she appeared alone to be occupied with every other. She laughed with Lord Trelawney; talked to the Miss Emmets; examined with interest every part of the ship, carelessly approaching the very edge of it; yet once she met that glance, which none ever who had seen, could forget, and she stopped as if rivetted to the earth.—He smiled; but whether it was a smile of approbation, or of scorn, she could not discover: the upper lip was curled, as if in derision; but the hand that was stretched out to save her, as she stood on the brink of the vessel, and the soft silvery voice which gently admonished her to beware, lest one false step should plunge her headlong into the gulph below, soon re-assured her.

It was late before the Duke took leave of the admiral, who promised to breakfast with the Commodore the ensuing day. The guns once more were fired; the band played as for their arrival; but the music now seemed to breathe a sadder strain; for it was heard, softened by distance, and every stroke of the oars rendered the sounds more and more imperfect. The sun was setting, and cast its lustre on the still waves: even the loquacity of the Emmets was for a few moments suspended; it was a moment which impressed the heart with awe; it was a scene never to be forgotten. The splendour of conquest, the tumult of enthusiasm, the aged veteran, and more than all, perhaps, that being who seemed early wrecked in the full tide of misfortune, were all fixed indelibly in Calantha’s memory. Future times might bring new interests and events; magnificence might display every wonderful variety; but the impression of that scene never can be effaced.

CHAPTER XI.

Calantha could not speak one word during the evening; but while Miss Emmets sung—indifferently, she listened and even wept at what never before excited or interest, or melancholy. At night, when in sleep, one image pursued her,—it was all lovely—all bright: it seemed to be clothed in the white garments of an angel; it was too resplendent for eyes to gaze on:—she awoke. Lord Avondale slept in the inner room; she arose and looked upon him, whilst he reposed. How long, how fondly she had loved those features—that form. What grace, what majesty, what beauty was there! But when those eyes awake, she said, they will not look for me. That heart is at peace, and thou canst sleep, Henry, and my sorrows are not known or heeded by thee. Happy Avondale:—Miserable, guilty Calantha!

At an early hour the ensuing day, Captain Emmet proposed a drive to Donallan Park, which he said was a fair domain, fully deserving the attention of the Duke of Altamonte. Cassandra and Heloisa clamorously seconded this proposal. In this energetic family, Mrs. Emmet alone gave the eye and the ear a little repose. Stretched upon a couch in languid listless inactivity, she gazed upon the bustling scene before her, as if entirely unconnected with it; nor seemed to know of greater suffering than when called from her reveries, by the acute voices of her family, to the bustle and hurry of common life. To the question of whether she would accompany them to Donallan Park, she answered faintly, that she would not go. A fat and friendly lieutenant, who fondly hung over her, urged her to relent, and with some difficulty, at length, persuaded her to do so.

Every one appeared much pleased with their excursion, or possibly with some incident during their drive, which had made any excursion agreeable. Of Donallan Park, however, Calantha remembered little: this alone, she noted, that as they walked through a shrubbery, Lord Glenarvon suddenly disengaging himself from Miss Emmet, who had monopolized his arm, gathered a rose—the only rose in bloom (it being early in the summer) and turning back, offered it to Calantha. She felt confused—flattered perhaps; but if she were flattered by his giving it to her, she had reason to be mortified by the remark which accompanied the gift. “I offer it to you,” he said, “because the rose at this season is rare, and all that is new or rare has for a moment, I believe, some value in your estimation.” She understood his meaning: her eye had been fixed upon him with more than common interest; and all that others said and Miss Emmet affected, he thought, perhaps, that she could feel. There was no proof she gave of this, more unequivocal, than her silence. Her spirits were gone; a strange fear of offending had come upon her; and when Lady Trelawney rallied her for this change, “I am not well,” she said; “I wish I had never come to Cork.”

On the ensuing morning, they returned to Castle Delaval. Previous to their departure, Admiral Buchanan had a long interview with Lady Margaret, during which time Lord Glenarvon walked along the beach with Calantha and Sophia. “Shall you be at Belfont again this year?” said Miss Seymour. “I shall be at Castle Delaval in a few days,” he answered, smiling rather archly at Calantha, she knew not wherefore. But she turned coldly from him, as if fearing to meet his eyes. Yet not so was it her custom to behave towards those whom she sought to please, and what woman upon earth exists, who had not wished to please Glenarvon? Possibly she felt offended at what he had said when giving her the rose in Donallan’s gardens; or it may be that her mind, hitherto so enthusiastic, so readily attracted, was grown callous and indifferent, and felt not those charms and the splendour of those talents which dazzled and misled every other heart.

Yet is it unflattering to fly, to feel embarrassed, to scarcely dare to look upon the person who addresses us? Is this so very marked a sign of indifference? It is not probable that Lord Glenarvon thought so. He appeared not to hate the being who was thus confused in his presence, but to think that he felt what he inspired were presumption. With all the wild eagerness of enthusiasm, her infatuated spirit felt what, with all the art of well dissembled vanity, he feigned. She quitted him with a strong feeling of interest. She, however, first heard him accept her father’s invitation, and agree to accompany Sir George Buchanan in his promised visit to Castle Delaval.

CHAPTER XII.

On their return thither, they found the guests they had left in a lamentable state of dullness. Lord Glenarvon was the first subject of enquiry. Is he arrived?—have you seen him?—do you like him?—were repeated on all sides. “Who?—who?” “There can be but one—Lord Glenarvon!” “We all like him quite sufficiently be assured of that,” said Sophia, glancing her eye somewhat sarcastically upon Calantha. “He is a very strange personage,” said Lady Margaret. “My curiosity to see him had been highly excited: I am now perfectly satisfied. He certainly has a slight resemblance to his mother.” “He has the same winning smile,” said Gondimar; “but there all comparison ceases.” “What says my Calantha?” said Lady Mandeville, “does her silence denote praise?” “Oh! the greatest,” she replied in haste, “I hope, my dear girls,” said Mrs. Seymour, rather seriously addressing her daughters, “that you will neither of you form any very marked intimacy with a person of so singular a character as is this young lord. I was rather sorry when, by your letter, I found he was invited here.” “Oh, there is no need of caution for us!” replied Lady Trelawny, laughing: “perhaps others may need these counsels, but not we: we are safe enough; are we not, Sophia?”

Lord Glenarvon, the object of discussion, soon appeared at the castle, to silence both praise and censure. There was a studied courtesy in his manner—a proud humility, mingled with a certain cold reserve, which amazed and repressed the enthusiasm his youth and misfortunes had excited. The end was as usual:—all were immediately won by this unexpected manner:—some more, some less, and Mrs. Seymour the last. But, to Calantha’s infinite amusement, she heard her speaking in his defence a few hours after his arrival; and the person she addressed, upon this occasion, was Sir Everard St. Clare, who vehemently asseverated, though only in a whisper, that the Duke must be mad to permit such a person to remain at the castle in times like the present.

Sir Everard then stated, that Lady St. Clare and her daughters were returned to Belfont, and so eager to be again received into society, that if they dared hope that any of the Duke’s family would accept their invitation, they intended to give a concert on the night of the great illumination for the Admiral’s arrival at Belfont. Mrs. Seymour smiled in scorn; but Lady Margaret kindly promised to go there; and as soon as Mrs. Seymour heard that it was merely in a political light they were to countenance them, she was satisfied. For the present terror of all the party, on the government side, was lest the rebels should get the better, and murder them for their tenets.

I will not say what Lord Glenarvon said to Calantha very shortly after his arrival at the castle; it was not of a nature to repeat; it was made up of a thousand nothings; yet they were so different from what others had said: it shewed her a mark of preference; at least it seemed so; but it was not a preference that could alarm the most wary, or offend the most scrupulous. Such as it was, however, it flattered and it pleased; it gave a new interest to her life, and obliterated from her memory every long cherished feeling of bitterness or regret.

It chanced one day, that, when seated at dinner, by Mrs. Seymour, to whom he paid no little attention, he enquired of her concerning Mac Allain, who waited upon that occasion behind the Duke’s chair. “Why looks he so miserable?” he said. “Why turn his eyes so incessantly towards Mr. Buchanan?” Mrs. Seymour hesitated, as if fearing to allude to a transaction which she never thought of without horror and dislike; but she no sooner pronounced the name of Mac Allain, than Lord Glenarvon’s countenance altered: he started! and, watching Buchanan with a look of loathing antipathy, exhibited such a variety of malevolent passions, in the space of a few moments, that Sophia, who sat near Calantha on the opposite side of the table, asked her, as she read countenances so well, to tell her what her new friend’s expressed at that instant. She raised her eyes; but met Glenarvon’s. He saw; he was the object of attention: he smiled; and, the sweetness of that smile alone being considered: “I know not,” she said, in some confusion; “but this I believe, that the hand of Heaven never impressed on man a countenance so beautiful, so glorious!” “Calantha!” said Sophia, looking at her. Calantha sighed. “What is it even so?—Heaven defend us!” somewhat confused. Calantha turned to the Count Gondimar; and, talking with affected spirits, soon appeared to have forgotten both the smile and the sigh.

“You once, when in London, gave me permission to warn you,” said the Count, who observed every thing that was passing, “when I thought you in danger. Now,” continued he,—“now is the moment. It was not when dancing with Mr. Clarendon, or playing the coquette with Buchanan and the Duke of Myrtlegrove, that I trembled for you. Lord Avondale was still dear, even in those days—but now—O! the inconstancy of the human heart. You, even you, are changed.” “Not me,” she replied; “but alas! that time is arrived which you predicted: he cares no more for me; but I can never forget him. See,” she continued, “how utterly indifferent he appears, yet I would die for him.” “That will be of little service: you will prove his ruin and misery. Mark my words, Lady Avondale; and, when too late, remember what I have dared to say!”

“Every woman complains,” she continued, smiling, “therefore, let me prove an exception. I have no reproaches to make Lord Avondale; and, except in your suspicious mind, there is no evil to apprehend.” “Tell me, candidly; if the trial were made, if the hour of temptation were to come, could you, do you think—could you have strength and courage to resist it?” “Could I! Can you ask! It will not be accounted presumption to affirm, that I feel secure. But possibly this arises from my conviction, that there can be no temptation for me: I love my husband: there is no merit then in being true to what we love.”

As she yet spoke, Zerbellini approached and asked her, in Italian, to read a note Lord Glenarvon had sent her. It was written with a pencil, and contained but few words: it requested her to speak no more with the Count Gondimar. He saw the manner in which the paper was delivered, and guessed from whom it came. “I told you so,” he cried. “Alas! shall I affect to offer you advice, when so many nearer and dearer friends are silent—shall I pretend to greater wisdom—greater penetration? Is it not inordinate vanity to hope, that any thing I can suggest will be of use?” “Speak,” said Calantha; for the subject was interesting to her; “at all events I shall not be offended.” “The serpent that is cherished in the bosom,” said Gondimar, fiercely, “will bite with deadly venom—the flame that brightly dazzles the little wanton butterfly, will destroy it. The heart of a libertine is iron: it softens when heated with the fires of lust; but it is cold and hard in itself. The whirlwinds of passions are strong and irresistible; but when they subside, the calm of insensibility will succeed. Remember the friend of thy youth; though he appear unkind, his seeming neglect is better worth than the vows and adulation of all beside. Oh! Lady Avondale, let one that is lovely, and blest as you are, continue chaste even in thought.”

Calantha looked up, and met Gondimar’s eyes: the fire in them convinced her that love alone dictated this sage advice; and none ever can conceive how much that feeling had been encreased by thus seeing a rival before him, whom he could not hope to render odious or ridiculous.

That day Lord Glenarvon had passed at the castle. On the following, he took his leave. The Duke appeared desirous of conciliating him; Lady Margaret was more than ordinarily brilliant and agreeable; Mrs. Seymour relaxed something of her frigidity; and the rest of the ladies were enthusiastic in their admiration.

Calantha spoke much and often apart with Gondimar. Every thought of her heart seemed concentrated on the sudden in one dark interest; yet it was not love that she felt: it could not be. By day, by night, one image pursued her; yet to save, to reclaim, to lead back from crime to virtue—from misery to peace, was, as she then apprehended, her sole desire. Were not all around alike infatuated? Was not the idol of her fancy a being to whom all alike paid the insense of flattery—the most lowly—the most abject?

“Let them pursue,” she cried; “let them follow after, and be favoured in turn. I alone, self-exiled, will fly, will hide myself beneath every concealment. He shall hear their words, and believe in their adulation; but never, whilst existence is allowed me, shall he know the interest with which he has inspired me.” Resolved upon this, and dreading her own thoughts, she danced, she rode, she sang, she talked to every one, sought every amusement, and seemed alone to dread one instant of repose—one single moment of time devoted to self examination and reflection. Ceaseless hurry, joyless mirth, endless desire of amusement varied the days as they flitted by. “Oh, pause to reflect!” said Gondimar. But it was vain: new scenes of interest succeeded each other; till suddenly she started as if shuddering on the very edge of perdition, in the dark labyrinth of sin—on the fathomless chasm which opened before her feet.

CHAPTER XIII.

Lord Glenarvon was now considered as a favoured guest at the castle. He came—he went, as it suited his convenience or his humour.—But every time he appeared, the secret interest he had excited, was strengthened; and every time he went, he left apparently deeper marks of regret.

Sir Richard Mowbrey and Sir George Buchanan, were at this time also at the castle. Sir Everard, forgetful of his wrongs, and his Lady of her projects for the emancipation of her countrymen, kept open house during their stay; Lady St. Clare, in pursuance of her plan of restoring herself to society, assisted herself with her daughters, at a concert in the great assembly rooms at Belfont, given in honour of the Admiral’s arrival. On this eventful evening, the whole party at the castle resolved to make a most wonderful éclat, by their brilliant appearance and condescension. The Duke addressed himself to every individual with his accustomed affability. Lord Avondale attended solely to his Uncle, who amused himself by walking up and down that part of the room which was prepared for the dancers, bowing to all, shaking hands with all, and receiving those compliments which his brave conduct deserved. Pale, trembling, and scarcely heeding the scene, Calantha watched with breathless anxiety for one alone; and that one, for what cause she knew not, spoke not to her.

“Where is he?”—“which is he?”—Was whispered now from mouth to mouth. The Admiral, the Duke, the concert were forgotten. One object appeared suddenly to engage the most boundless curiosity. “Is that really Lord Glenarvon?” Said a pretty little woman pushing her way towards him. “Oh let me but have the happiness of speaking one word to him:—let me but say, when I return to my home, that I have seen him, and I shall be overjoyed.” Calantha made room for the enthusiastic Lady:—she approached—she offered her hand to the deliverer of his Country as she called him:—he accepted it with grace, but some embarrassment. The rush was then general: everyone would see—would speak to their Lord—their King; and the fashionable reserve which affectation had, for a moment, taught the good people of Belfont to assume, soon vanished, when nature spoke in their bosoms: so that had not the performers of the grand concerto called to order, Lord Glenarvon had been absolutely obliged to make his retreat. The mystery in which his fate appeared involved, his youth, his misfortunes, his brave conduct, and perhaps even his errors awakened this interest in such as beheld him. But he turned from the gaze of strangers with bitterness.

“Will you allow me to seat myself near you?” he said, approaching Calantha’s chair. “Can you ask?” “Without asking, I would not. You may possibly stay till late: I shall go early. My only inducement in coming here was you.” “Was me! Do not say, what I am well assured is not true.” “I never say what I do not feel. Your presence here alone makes me endure all this fulsome flattery, noise, display. If you dance—that is, when you dance, I shall retire.”

The concert now began with frequent bursts of applause. All were silent:—suddenly a general murmur proclaimed some new and unexpected event:—a young performer appeared. Was it a boy! Such grace—such beauty, soon betrayed her: it was Miss St. Clare. She could not hope for admittance in her own character; yet, under a feigned name, she had promised to assist at the performance; and the known popularity of her songs, and the superior sweetness of her voice, prevented the professors from enquiring too much into the propriety of such an arrangement.

Messieurs John Maclane and Creighton had just been singing in Italian, an opera buffa. The noise they had made was such, that even the most courteous had been much discountenanced. A moment’s pause ensued; when, without one blush of modest diffidence, but, on the contrary, with an air of dauntless and even contemptuous effrontery, the youthful performer seized her harp—Glenarvon’s harp—and singing, whilst her dark brilliant eyes were fixed upon him alone, she gave vent to the emotions of her own bosom, and drew tears of sympathy from many another. The words were evidently made at the moment; and breathed from the heart. She studied not the composition, but the air was popular, and for that cause it had effect.

The admiration for the young enthusiast was checked by the extreme disgust her shameless ill conduct had occasioned. The tears, too, of Sir Everard, who was present, and audibly called upon his cruel ungrateful niece, extorted a stronger feeling of sympathy than her lawless and guilty love. She retired the moment she had ended her song, and the commotion her presence had excited subsided with her departure.

The heiress of Delaval, decked in splendid jewels, had not lost by comparison with the deserted Elinor. She was the reigning favourite of the moment: every one observed it, and smiled upon her the more on that account. To be the favourite of the favoured was too much. The adulation paid to her during the evening; and the caresses lavished upon her had possibly turned a wiser head than her’s; but alas! a deeper interest employed her thoughts, and Glenarvon’s attention was her sole object.

Calantha had felt agitated and serious during Miss St. Clare’s performance. Lord Glenarvon had conversed with his customary ease; yet something had wounded her. Perhaps she saw, in the gaze of strangers, that this extreme and sudden intimacy was observed; or possibly her heart reproached her. She felt that not vanity alone, nor even enthusiasm, was the cause of her present emotion. She knew not, nor could imagine the cause; but, with seeming inconsistency, after refusing positively to dance, she sent for Buchanan and joined in that delectable amusement; and, as if the desire of exercise had superseded every other, she danced on with an energy and perseverance, which excited the warmest approbation in all. “What spirits Lady Avondale has!” said one. “How charming she is!” cried another. She herself only sighed.

“Have you ever read a tragedy of Ford’s?” whispered Lady Augusta to Calantha, as soon as she had ceased to exhibit—“a tragedy entitled The Broken Heart.” “No,” she replied, half vexed, half offended. “At this moment you put me vastly in mind of it. You look most woefully. Come, tell me truly, is not your heart in torture? and, like your namesake Calantha, while lightly dancing the gayest in the ring, has not the shaft already been struck, and shall you not die ere you attain the goal?” She indeed felt nearly ready to do so; and fanning herself excessively, declared, that it was dreadfully hot—that she should absolutely expire of the heat: yet while talking and laughing with those who surrounded her, her eye looked cautiously round, eager to behold the resentment and expected frowns of him whom she had sought to offend; but there was no frown on Lord Glenarvon’s brow—no look of resentment.

“And are you happy?” he said, approaching her with gentleness. “Perhaps so, since some can rejoice in the sufferings of others. Yet I forgive you, because I know you are not yourself. I see you are acting from pique; but you have no cause; for did you know my heart, and could you feel what it suffers on your account, your doubts would give way to far more alarming suspicions.” He paused, for she turned abruptly from him. “Dance on then, Lady Avondale,” he continued, “the admiration of those for whose society you were formed—the easy prey of every coxcomb to whom that ready hand is so continually offered, and which I have never once dared to approach. Such is the respect which will ever be shewn to the object of real admiration, interest and regard, although that object seems willing to forget that it is her due. But,” added he, assuming that air of gaiety he had one moment laid aside, “I detain you, do I not? See Colonel Donallan and the Italian Count await you.” “You mistake me,” she said gravely; “I could not presume to imagine that my dancing would be heeded by you:—I could have no motive——” “None but the dear delight of tormenting,” said he, “which gave a surprising elasticity to your step, I can assure you. Indubitably had not that impulse assisted, you could not thus have excelled yourself.” “If you knew,” she said, “what I suffer at this moment you would spare me. Why do you deride me?” “Because, oh Lady Avondale, I dare not—I cannot speak to you more seriously. I feel that I have no right—no claim on you. I dread offending; but to-morrow I shall expiate all; for I leave you to-morrow.—Yes, it must be so. I am going from Ireland. Indeed I was going before I had the misery of believing that I should leave any thing in it I could ever regret.” What Calantha felt, when he said this, cannot be described.

“Will you dance the two next dances with me?” said Colonel Donallan, now approaching. “I am tired: will you excuse me? I believe our carriages are ordered.” “Oh surely you will not go away before supper.” “Ask Lady Mandeville what she means to do.” “Lady Trelawney and Miss Seymour stay.” “Then perhaps I shall.” The Colonel bowed and retired.—“Give me the rose you wear,” said Glenarvon in a low voice, “in return for the one I presented you at Donallan Park.” “Must I?” “You must,” said he, smiling. With some hesitation, she obeyed; yet she looked around in hopes no vigilant eye might observe her. She took it from her bosom, and gave it tremblingly into his hands. A large pier glass reflected the scene to the whole company. The rose thus given, was received with transport. It said more, thus offered, than a thousand words:—it was taken and pressed to a lover’s lips, till all its blushing beauties were gone, then it was cast down on the earth to be trampled upon by many. And had Calantha wished it, she might have read in the history of the flower, the fate that ever attends on guilty love.

And was it love she felt so soon—so strongly!—It is not possible. Alarmed, grieved, flattered at his altered manner, she turned aside to conceal the violent, the undefinable emotions, to which she had become a prey:—a dream of ecstasy for one moment fluttered in her heart; but the recollection of Lord Avondale recurring, she started with horror from herself—from him; and, abruptly taking leave, retired.

“Are you going?” said Glenarvon. “I am ill,” she answered. “Will you suffer me to accompany you?” he said, as he assisted her into her carriage; “or possibly it is not the custom in this country:—you mistrust me—you think it wrong.”—“No,” she answered with embarrassment; and he seated himself by her side. The distance to the castle was short. Lord Glenarvon was more respectful, more reserved, more silent than before he had entered the carriage. On quitting it alone, he pressed her hand to his heart, and bade her feel for the agony she had implanted there. None, perhaps, ever before felt what she did at this instant....

CHAPTER XIV.

If any indifferent person approach us, it either is disagreeable, or at least unimportant; but when it is a person we love, it thrills through the heart, and we are unable to speak or to think. Could she have imagined, that Lord Glenarvon felt for her, she had been lost. But that was impossible; and yet his manner;—it was so marked, there could be no doubt. She was inexperienced, we may add, innocent; though no doubt sufficiently prepared to become every thing that was the reverse. Yet in a moment she felt her own danger, and resolved to guard against it. How then can so many affirm, when they know that they are loved, that it is a mere harmless friendship! how can they, in palliation of their errors, bring forward the perpetually repeated excuse, that they were beguiled! The heart that is chaste and pure will shrink the soonest from the very feeling that would pollute it:—in vain it would attempt to deceive itself: the very moment we love, or are loved, something within us points out the danger:—even when we fly from him, to whom we could attach ourselves, we feel a certain embarrassment—an emotion, which is not to be mistaken; and, in a lover’s looks, are there not a thousand assurances and confessions which no denial of words can affect to disguise?

Lord Glenarvon had denied to Calantha the possibility of his ever again feeling attachment. This had not deceived her; but she was herself too deeply and suddenly struck to the heart to venture to hope for a return. Besides, she did not think of this as possible:—he seemed to her so far above her—so far above everything. She considered him as entirely different from all others; and, if not superior, at least dissimilar and consequently not to be judged of by the same criterion.

It is difficult to explain Calantha’s peculiar situation with respect to Lord Avondale. Yet it is necessary briefly to state in what manner they were situated at this particular period; for otherwise, all that is related must appear like a mere fable, improbable and false. They were dearer to each other perhaps, than any two who had been so long united in marriage. They loved each other with more passion, more enthusiasm than is often retained; but they were, from a thousand circumstances, utterly estranged at this time; and that apparently by mutual consent—like two violent spirits which had fretted and chafed and opposed each other, till both were sore and irritated.

In the course of years, they had said every thing that was most galling and bitter; and though the ardent attachment they really felt, had ever followed those momentary bursts of fury, the veil had been torn aside—that courtesy, which none should ever suffer themselves to forget, had been broken through, and they had yielded too frequently to the sudden impulse of passion, ever to feel secure that the ensuing moment might not produce a scene of discord.

A calm, a deliberate tyrant, had vanquished Calantha; a violent one could not. When provoked, Lord Avondale was too severe; and when he saw her miserable and oppressed, it gave him more suffering than if he had himself been subdued. There are few spirits which cannot be overcome if dexterously attacked; but with the fierce and daring, force and violence will generally be found useless. It should be remembered that, like madness, these disturbed characters see not things as they are; and, like martyrs and fanatics, they attach a degree of glory to every privation and punishment in the noble cause of opposition to what they conceive is unjust authority. Such a character is open and guileless; but unhappily, the very circumstance that makes it sincere, renders it also, if misturned, desperate and hardened.

During the first years of their marriage, these tumultuous scenes but strengthened the attachment they felt for each other; but when Lord Avondale’s profession absorbed his mind, he dreaded a recurrence of what had once so fully engrossed his thoughts. He left Calantha, therefore, to the guidance of that will, which she had so long and pertinaciously indulged. Absent, pre-occupied, he saw not, he heard not, the misuse she made of her entire liberty. Some trifle, perhaps, at times, reached his ear; a scene of discord ensued; much bitterness on both sides followed: and the conviction that they no longer loved each other, added considerably to the violence of recrimination. They knew not how deeply rooted affection such as they had once felt, must ever be—how the very ties that compelled them to belong to each other, strengthened, in fact, the attachment which inclination and love had first inspired; but, with all the petulance and violence of character natural to each, they fled estranged and offended from each other’s society.

Lord Avondale sought, in an active and manly profession, for some newer interest, in which every feeling of ambition could have part; and she, surrendering her soul to the illusive dream of a mad and guilty attachment, boasted that she had found again the happiness she had lost; and contrasted even the indifference of her husband, to the ardour, the devotion, the refined attention of a newly acquired friend.

CHAPTER XV.

O better had it been to die than to see and hear Glenarvon. When he smiled, it was like the light radiance of heaven; and when he spoke, his voice was more soothing in its sweetness than music. He was so gentle in his manners, that it was in vain even to affect to be offended; and, though he said he never again could love, he would describe how some had died, and others maddened, under the power of that fierce passion—how every tie that binds us, and every principle and law, must be broken through, as secondary considerations, by its victims:—he would speak home to the heart; for he knew it in all its turnings and windings; and, at his will, he could rouze or tame the varying passions of those over whom he sought to exercise dominion. Yet, when by every art and talent he had raised the scorching flames of love, tearing himself from his victim, he would leave her, then weep for the agony of grief by which he saw her destroyed.

Had he betrayed in his manner to Calantha that freedom, that familiarity so offensive in men, but yet so frequent amongst them, she would yet have shuddered. But what was she to fly? Not from the gross adulation, or the easy flippant protestations to which all women are soon or late accustomed; but from a respect, at once refined and flattering—an attention devoted even to her least wishes, yet without appearing subservient—a gentleness and sweetness, as rare as they were fascinating; and these combined with all the powers of imagination, vigour of intellect, and brilliancy of wit, which none ever before possessed in so eminent a degree; and none ever since have even presumed to rival. Could she fly from a being unlike all others—sought for by every one, yet, by his own confession, wholly and entirely devoted to herself.

How cold, compared with Glenarvon was the regard her family and friends affected! Was it confidence in her honour, or indifference? Lord Glenarvon asked Calantha repeatedly, which it most resembled—he appealed to her vanity even, whether strong affection could thus neglect and leave the object of its solicitude? Yet, had she done nothing to chill a husband and parent’s affection—had she not herself lessened the regard they had so faithfully cherished?

Calantha thought she had sufficient honour and spirit to tell her husband at once the danger to which she was exposed; but when she considered more seriously her situation, it appeared to her almost ridiculous to fancy that it was so imminent. If upon some occasion, Lord Glenarvon’s manner was ardent, the ensuing morning she found him cold, distant and pre-occupied, and she felt ashamed of the weakness which for one moment could have made her imagine she was the object of his thoughts. Indeed, he often took an opportunity of stating, generally, that he never could feel either interest or love for any thing on earth; that once he had felt too deeply and had suffered bitterly from it; and that now his sole regret was in the certainty that he never again could be so deceived.

He spoke with decision of leaving Ireland, and more than once repeated, emphatically to the Duke, “I shall never forget the kindness which prompted you to seek me out, when under very unpleasant circumstances; I shall immediately withdraw my name from the club; my sentiments I cannot change: but you have already convinced me of the folly of spreading them amongst the unenlightened multitude.”

Sir Everard, who was present, lifted up his hands at such discourse. “He is a convert of mine, I verily believe,” he cried; “and Elinor”—“Miss St. Clare,” whispered Glenarvon, turning to the Doctor, “has long been admonished by me, to return to an indulgent uncle, and throw herself on your mercy.” “My mercy!” said Sir Everard, bursting into tears,—“my gratitude. Oh! my child, my darling.” “And believe me,” continued Lord Glenarvon, with an air which seemed haughtily to claim belief, “I return her as innocent as she came to me. Her imagination may have bewildered and beguiled her; but her principles are uncorrupted.” “Generous young nobleman!” exclaimed Sir Everard, ready to kneel before him—“noble, mighty, grand young gentleman! wonder of our age!” Lord Glenarvon literally smiled through his tears; for the ridicule of Sir Everard did not prevent his excellent and warm feelings from affecting those who knew him well. “And will she return to her poor uncle?” “I know not,” said Lord Glenarvon, gravely: “I fear not; but I have even implored her to do so.” “Oh, if you fail who are so fair and so persuasive, who can hope to move her?” “She may hear a parent’s voice,” said Glenarvon, “even though deaf to a lover’s prayer.” “And are you indeed a lover to my poor deluded Elinor?” “I was,” said Lord Glenarvon, proudly; “but her strange conduct, and stubborn spirit have most effectually cured me; and I must own, Sir Everard, I do not think I ever again can even affect a feeling of that sort: after all, it is a useless way of passing life.” “You are right,” said the Doctor; “quite right; and it injures the health; there is nothing creates bile, and hurts the constitution more, than suspense and fretting:—I know it by myself.”

They were standing in the library during this discourse. Lady Avondale entered now; Lord Glenarvon approached her. They were for a few moments alone:—he lent over her; she held a book in her hand; he read a few lines: it is not possible to describe how well he read them. The poetry he read was beautiful as his own: it affected him. He read more; he became animated; Calantha looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he forgot the poem; his hand touched hers, as he replaced the book before her; she drew away her hand; he took it and put it to his lips. “Pardon me,” he said, “I am miserable: but I will never injure you. Fly me, Lady Avondale: I deserve not either interest or regard; and to look upon me is in itself pollution to one like you.” He then said a few words expressive of his admiration for her husband:—“He is as superior to me,” he said, “as Hyperion to a satyr:—and you love him, do you not?” continued he, smiling. “Can you ask?” “He seems most attached, too, to you.” “Far, far more than I deserve.”

“I can never love again,” said Glenarvon, still holding her hand: “never. There will be no danger in my friendship,” he said after a moment’s thought: “none; for I am cold as the grave—as death; and all here,” he said pressing her hand upon his heart, “is chilled, lost, absorbed. They will speak ill of me,” he continued rather mournfully; “and you will learn to hate me.” “I! never, never. I will defend you, if abused; I will hate those who hate you; I—” He smiled: “How infatuated you are,” he said, “poor little thing that seeks to destroy itself. Have you not then heard what I have done?” “I have heard much” said Calantha, “but I know—I feel it is false.” “It is all too true,” said Lord Glenarvon carelessly:—“all quite true; and there is much worse yet:”—“But it is no matter,” he continued; “the never dying worm feeds upon my heart: I am like death, Lady Avondale; and all beneath is seared.”

Whilst the conscience wakes, and the blush of confused and trembling guilt yet varies the complexion, the sin is not of long standing, or of deep root; but when the mind seeks to disguise from itself its danger,—when, playing upon the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly deludes itself, and appears hard and callous to every admonitory caution, then is the moment for alarm; and that moment now appeared to realize Calantha’s fears.

Attacked with some asperity by her numerous friends, for her imprudent conduct, she now boldly avowed her friendship for Glenarvon, and disclaimed the possibility of its exceeding the bounds which the strictest propriety had rendered necessary. She even gloried in his attachment; and said that there was not one of those who were admonishing her to beware who would not readily, nay, even gladly fill her place. Calantha had seen their letters to him: she had marked their advances—too fatal symptom of the maddening disease! she really imagined that all others like herself, were enamoured with the same idol; and in this instance she was right:—the infatuation was general: he was termed the leader of the people, the liberator of his country, the defender of the rights of Ireland. If he wandered forth through Belfont, he was followed by admiring crowds; and whilst he affected to disdain the transient homage, she could not but perceive that he lost no opportunity by every petty artifice of encreasing the illusion.

CHAPTER XVI.

At this crisis the whole party at the castle were disturbed by the unexpected arrival of the Princess of Madagascar at Dublin. A small fleet had been seen approaching the coast: it was rumoured that the French in open boats were preparing to invade Ireland; but it proved, though it may sound rather ludicrous to say so, only the great Nabob and the Princess of Madagascar. Their immense retinue and baggage, which the common people took for the heavy artillery, arrived without incident or accident at Belfont; and the couriers having prepared the Duke for the reception of his illustrious guest, they awaited her arrival with considerable impatience.

During the bustle and noise this little event occasioned, Lord Glenarvon came to Lady Avondale and whispered in her ear, “I shall walk this evening: contrive to do so as I have something of importance to tell you.” As he spoke, he pretended to pick up a ring. “Is this yours?” he said. “No.” “It is,” he whispered; and placed it himself upon her finger. It was an emerald with an harp engraved upon it—the armorial bearing of Ireland: “let us be firm and united,” was written under. “I mean it merely politically,” he said smiling. “Even were you a Clarissa, you need not be alarmed: I am no Lovelace, I promise you.”

The princess was now announced, fifty-three attendants and twenty-four domestic friends, were her small and concientious establishment, besides a cook, confectioner and laundress, to the total discomfiture of Irish hospitality. The high priest in the dress of the greek church, ever attended her, and eagerly sought to gain adherents to the only true established church, at whatever house he occasionally rested. The simplicity of Hoiouskim, his eagerness, his abilities and information, added an agreeable variety at Castle Delaval.

But neither the presence of the Nabob nor the caresses of the princess who cast many a gentle glance upon Glenarvon could for one moment detach his thoughts from Calantha. On the contrary he answered her with distant reserve and appeared eager to shew to every one the marked distinction he felt for the woman he loved. Oh! he is really sincere, she thought as he left them all to attend to her. “I amuse—I soothe him,” the hope rendered her blest and she felt indifferent to every consequence.

“You are not as pretty as Sophia,” said Glenarvon looking on her; “but I admire you more. Your errors are such as you have frankly confessed; but you have others which you wished me not to perceive. Few have so many faults, yet how is it that you have wound yourself already around this cold, this selfish heart, which had resolved never again to admit any. You love your husband Lady Avondale: I respect you too well to attempt to change your affection; but if I wished it, your eyes already tell me what power I have gained:—I could do what I would.” “No, no,” she answered. “You are too vain.” “None ever yet resisted me,” said Glenarvon, “do you think you could?” Calantha scarce knew how to answer; but while she assured him she could resist any one and had no fear for herself, she felt the contrary; and trembled with mixed apprehensions of joy and sorrow at her boast—when others approached, he did not change: his manner to Calantha: he discontinued his conversation; but he still looked the same: he was not fearful as some would have been, or servile, or full of what might be said:—he seemed in all respects careless or desperate. He laughed, but his laugh was not the heart’s laugh: his wit enlivened and dazzled others; but it seemed not the effect of exuberant spirits.

It was not unfrequently the custom at Castle Delaval, during the fine summer evenings, to walk after dinner, before cards or music. The flower gardens, and shrubbery were the most usual places of resort. Lady Augusta smilingly observed to Lady Mandeville and Sophia, that, for some evenings past, Lady Avondale had taken more extensive rambles, and that Lord Glenarvon and she were oftentimes absent till supper was announced. The Count Gondimar, who overheard the remark, affected to think it malignant, and asked with a sarcastic sneer, whether Lord Avondale were with her on these evening excursions? “Little Mowbray seems a great favourite of Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Lady Augusta; “but I do not fancy his father is often of the party, or that his being Lady Avondale’s child is the cause of it: the boy has a sprightly wit. We must not draw unfair conclusions: last year Mr. Buchanan gave us alarm; and now, it is quite natural we should all fall in love with Lord Glenarvon. I have myself; only he will not return my advances. Did you observe what an eye I made him at breakfast?... but that never was a love making meal. Place me but near him at supper, and you shall see what I can do.”

Gondimar suddenly left Lady Augusta, who was walking on the terrace. He had caught a glimpse of Calantha as she wandered slowly by the banks of Elle:—he hastened to the spot; he saw her; he penetrated her feelings; and he returned thoughtful and irritated to the Castle. Snatching a pen, he wrote for some time. Lady Trelawney and Lady Augusta, observing him, approached and insisted upon being made acquainted with his studies. “It is an ode you are inditing, I am certain,” said the latter, “I saw you struck by the God as you darted from me.” “You are right,” cried Gondimar, “I am composing a song.” “In English too, I perceive.” “What, if it be English? you know one of my talents, can write even in that d——d language: so criticise my rhapsody if you dare. At all events, Lady Avondale will admire it; for it is about a rose and love—most sentimental. And where is she? for till her return, I will not shew it you.”

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,

Smooth and untroubled, through the flow’ry vale:

O’er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing,

Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale.

Here ’twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing,

One still too dear, first breath’d his vows to thee:

Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing,

Near to thy heart, in memory of me.

Love’s cherished gift, the rose he gave, is faded;

Love’s blighted flower, can never bloom again.

Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded:

Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain.

Call back the vows, that once to heaven were plighted,

Vows full of love, of innocence and truth.

Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted:

Call back the dream that blest thy early youth.

Flow silver stream, tho’ threatening tempests lower,

Bright, mild and clear, thy gentle waters flow;

Round thy green banks, the spring’s young blossoms flower;

O’er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.

—Yet, all in vain; for never spring arraying

Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair.

Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtraying

Years past of bliss, and future of despair.

Sidy. Hall sculpt.

Gondimar seemed affected whilst he sung; and Calantha felt nearly suffocated with every sort of feeling. Lady Augusta pretended not to understand it, and hastened with Calantha into the adjoining room. Lord Glenarvon followed and approached Lady Avondale: “Remember me in your prayers, my gentlest friend,” he whispered. “Even in the still night let some remembrance of Glenarvon occur. Think of me, for I am jealous even of thy dreams.” The angry glance of Gondimar interrupted the conference.

Calantha could not sleep that night. A thousand fears and hopes rushed upon her mind. She retired to her room: at one time seized a pen, and wrote, in all the agony of despair, a full confession of her guilty feelings to her husband; the next she tore the dreadful testimony of her erring heart, and addressed herself to heaven for mercy. But vain the struggle. From childhood’s earliest day she never had refused herself one wish, one prayer. She knew not on the sudden how to curb the fierce and maddening fever that raged within. “I am lost,” she cried, “I love—I worship. To live without him will be death—worse, worse than death. One look, one smile from Glenarvon, is dearer than aught else that heaven has to offer. Then let me not attempt, what I have not power to effect. Oh, as his friend, let me still behold him. His love, some happier, some better heart shall possess.” Again she started with horror from herself. “His love!” she cried, “and can I think of him in so criminal—so guilty a manner! I who am a wife, and more—a mother! Let me crush such feelings even now in their birth. Let me fly him, whilst yet it is possible; nor imagine the grief, he says my absence will cause, can exceed the misery my dishonourable attachment will bring upon both! And did he dare to tell me that he loved me? Was not this in itself a proof that he esteemed me no longer? Miserable, wretched Calantha; where shall I fly to hide my shame? How conceal from a lover’s searching eyes that he is too dear?”

With such thoughts she attempted to close her eyes; but dreadful dreams disturbed her fancy; and the image of Glenarvon pursued her even in sleep. She saw him—not kneeling at her feet, in all the impassioned transports of love; not radiant with hope, nor even mournful with despondency and fear; but pale, deadly, and cold: his hand was ice, and as he placed it upon hers, she shrunk as from the grasp of death, and awoke oppressed with terror.

CHAPTER XVIII.

No one had apparently observed Lady Avondale’s feigned indisposition that evening—feigned, indeed, it was not; no one soothed her during her sleepless night; and in the morning when she awoke, at an early hour, Lord Avondale asked her not the cause of her disquiet. She arose and descended upon the terrace:—her steps involuntarily led her to the banks of the Elle. The flowers, fresh with dew, sparkled in the sunshine, and scented the soft morning air. She hurried on, regardless of the distance. The rose he had given her was faded; but its leaves were preserved by her with fondest care.

Whilst yet she walked, at a little distance she perceived Gondimar, and was in consequence preparing to return, when he abruptly accosted her; and with a manner too little respectful, rudely seized her hand. “Have you not slept?” he cried, “my charming, my adored young friend, that you are thus early in your walk; or did you imagine that others, beside myself would wander upon these banks, and await your fairy step? O suffer one who admires—who loves, to open his heart to you—to seize this opportunity.” ... “Leave me—approach me not. What have I done to deserve this from you?” she exclaimed. “Why seize my hand by force? Why press it—oh God! to those detested lips? Leave me, Count Gondimar: forget not the respect due to every woman.” “Of virtue!” he replied, with a scornful smile. “But tell me, has Lady Avondale never suffered such insults from some who have no better claim? Has she still a right to this amazing mockery of respect? Ah! trust me, we cannot command our love.” “Neither can we command our abhorrence—our disgust,” she exclaimed, breaking from his grasp and hastening away.

As Calantha re-entered the Castle, she met Lady Margaret and Glenarvon, who appeared surprised and disconcerted at seeing her. “Has Count Gondimar been speaking to you upon any subject of importance?” said Lady Margaret in a whisper, trying to conceal a look of suspicion, and some embarrassment. Before Calantha could answer, he had joined them; and explaining fully that their meeting had been entirely accidental, they both walked off together apparently in earnest discourse, leaving Lord Glenarvon and Lady Avondale together. Calantha’s heart was full, she could not speak, she therefore left him in haste and when alone she wept. Had she not reason; for every indignity and grief was falling fast upon her. She could not tell what had occurred to Lord Avondale—he had a fierce and dangerous spirit; and to Glenarvon she would not, upon every account. Glenarvon awaited her return with anxiety. “I was surprised to see you with my aunt,” she said, “what could you be saying to her.” He evaded the question, and tenderly enquired of her the cause of her uneasiness and tears. He loved beyond a doubt—at least he convinced Calantha that he did so.

Confused, perturbed, she, more than ever felt the danger of her situation: trembling she met his eyes, fearing lest he should penetrate her secret. Confident in her own strength: “I will fly,” she said “though it be to the utmost extremity of the earth; but I will never yield—never betray myself. My fate is sealed—misery must, in future, be my portion; but no eye shall penetrate into the recesses of my heart.—none shall share my distress, or counsel me in my calamity.” Thus she reasoned; and struggling as she thought, against her guilty passion, by attempting to deceive the object of her devotion, she in reality yielded herself entirely to his power, self deluded and without controul.

How new to her mind appeared the fever of her distracted thoughts! Love she had felt—unhappy love, she had once for a time experienced; but no taint of guilt was mingled with the feeling; and the approach to vice she started from with horror and alarm. Lord Glenarvon had succeeded too well—she had seen him—she had heard him too often; she fled in vain: he read his empire in the varying colour of her cheeks; he traced his power in every faltering word, in every struggling sigh: that strange silence, that timid air, that dread of beholding him—all confirmed, and all tempted him forward to pursue his easy prey. “She is mine,” he cried exultingly,—“mine, too, without a struggle,—this fond wife, this chaste and pure Calantha. Wherever I turn, new victims fall before me—they await not to be courted.”

But Lord Glenarvon had oftentimes said, that he never again could feel affection for any woman. How then was the interest he shewed Calantha to be accounted for? What name was he to give it? It was the attachment of a brother to the sister whom he loved: it was all devotion—all purity; he would never cherish a thought that might not be heard in heaven, or harbour one wish detrimental to the happiness of his friend. This was said, as it often has been said: both felt that it was false; but both continued to repeat, what they wished to believe possible. His health and spirits had much declined; he looked as if sorrows, which he durst not utter, afflicted his heart; and though, in the presence of others he affected gaiety, when alone with Calantha he did not disguise his sadness. She sought to console him: she was grave—she was gentle, she could be both; and the occasion seemed to call for her utmost kindness.

He spoke much to her; and sometimes read as Lord Avondale once had done; and none ever but Lord Avondale read as well. His tears flowed for the sorrows of those whose poetry and history he repeated. Calantha wept also; but it was for Glenarvon, that she mourned. When he had ended the tale of love and sorrow, his eyes met hers and they spoke more—far more than words. Perhaps he generously resolved to contend against his own feelings; even at times he warned her of her danger.—But, when he bade her fly him, he held her hand, as if to detain her; and when he said the passion he cherished would cause the misery of both, he acknowledged that her presence alleviated his sufferings, and that he could not bear to see hers less.

CHAPTER XIX.

There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint—there are hours of agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant vice and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one prayer; upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy; and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirely possessed himself of her imagination.

Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid secret, which weighed upon his mind. He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; then turn to Calantha, and ask her what she had heard and seen. His gestures, his menaces were terrific. He would talk to the air; then laugh with convulsive horror; and gazing wildly around, enquire of her, if there were not blood upon the earth, and if the ghosts of departed men had not been seen by some.

Calantha thought that madness had fallen upon his mind, and wept to think that talents such as his were darkened and shrouded over by so heavy a calamity. But when the fierce moment was passed, tears would force their way into his eyes, and placing her hand upon his burning head, he would call her his sole comforter, the only hope that was left him upon earth; his dearest, his only friend; and he would talk to her of happier times; of virtues that had been early blighted; of hopes that his own rashness and errors had destroyed.

It was one day, one dark and fatal day, when passion raging in his bosom, and time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly approached her, and seizing her with violence, asked her if she returned his love. “My friendship is ruin,” he cried; “all alliance with me must cast disgrace upon the object of my regard. But, Calantha, you must be mine! May I not even now call you thus? Shall they ever persuade you to abandon me? Vain is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; “I love you to madness and to distraction—you know it too well. Why then suffer me to feel the tortures I endure, when a word—a look from you could relieve me. You are not indifferent: say then that you are not—thou, who alone canst save me. Here even, in the presence of heaven, I will open my whole heart before you—that heart is seared with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed wounds, incurable and deadly. A few short years, I have perhaps yet to linger: thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge me still lower, whilst I cling to thee for mercy; but will you do it, because you have the power?”

Calantha scarce could support herself. After a moment’s pause, he continued, “You shall hear me.—Never, since the hour of my birth, never—I make no exception of either the living, or, what is far dearer and more sacred to me, the dead—never did I love with such mad and frantic violence as now. O seek not to disguise it; that love is returned. I read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; and whilst, with assumed and barbarous coldness, you would drive me from you, your own heart pleads for me; and, like myself, you love.”

Faint and trembling, Calantha now leant for support upon that arm which surrounded her, and from which she, in vain, attempted to shrink. It was a dreadful moment. Glenarvon, who never yet had sued in vain, marked every varying turn of her countenance which too well expressed his empire and her own weakness. “I cannot live without you.—Mine you are—mine you shall ever be,” he said, “whilst this heart beats with life.” Then with a smile of exultation, he seized her in his arms.

Starting however with all the terror which the first approach to guilt must ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified and trembling: “even though my heart should break in the struggle, let me not act so basely by him to whom I am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not hate me—say only,” he continued, with more gentleness, and pressing her hand to his lips—“say only, that you share the tortures of agony you have inflicted—say that which I know and see—that I am loved to adoration—even as I love you.”

With tears she besought him to spare her. “I feel your power too much,” she said. “All that I ought not—must not say, I think and feel. Be satisfied; your empire is complete. Spare me—save me; I have not power to feign.” Her tears fell now unrestrained. “There is no need of this,” he said, recovering himself; “you have sealed my fate. A moment of passion beguiled me: I am calm now, as when first I met you—calm and cold, even as yourself. Since it is your wish, and since my presence makes your misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often said; but it shall be alone. My country I leave without regret; for the chain of tyranny has encompassed it: friends, I have none; and thou, who wert as an angel of light to me—to whom I knelt for safety and for peace—mayst thou be blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for me, nothing can increase the misery I feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to share it. This is no lover’s despondency—no sudden and violent paroxysm occasioned by disappointed passion. It is uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness of despair: it is the confession, not the repining of a heart that was early blighted and destroyed.”

Calantha now interrupted him. “I alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk not of leaving me; we may still be friends—we must never be more.” “Oh! promise that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon looked on her with kindness. “Let no fears dissuade you until I shew myself unworthy of the trust. Forsake not him, whose only happiness is in your affection. I was joyless and without hope, when first I met you; but the return, to loneliness and misery, is hard to bear. Be virtuous, and, if it may be so, be happy.” “That I never more can be,” she answered. “You are young in sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know not its dangers, its pleasures, or its bitterness. All this, ere long, will be forgotten.” “Never forgotten,” she replied, “oh never!”

CHAPTER XX.

Glenarvon wandered forth every evening by the pale moon, and no one knew whither he went, and no one marked but Calantha how late was his return. And when the rain fell heavy and chill, he would bare his forehead to the storm; and faint and weary wander forth, and often he smiled on others and appeared calm, whilst the burning fever of his blood continued to rage within.

Once Calantha followed him, it was at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld her, no mark of surprise or joy. She followed him to the rocks called the Black Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain called the Wizzard’s Glen; there was a lonely cottage near the cleft where St. Clara, it was said, had taken up her abode. He knocked; but she was from home: he called; but no one replied from within. Her harp was left at the entrance of a bower: a few books and a table were also there. Glenarvon approached the harp and leaning upon it, fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly upon Calantha. “Others who formerly felt or feigned interest for me,” he said “were either unhappy in their marriage, or in their situation; but you brave every thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how little do you know the heart for which you are preparing to sacrifice so much.”

The place upon which they stood was wild and romantic; the sea murmured beneath them; distant sounds reached them from the caverns; and the boats passed to and fro within the harbour. The descent was rugged and dangerous. Calantha looked first upon the scene, and then upon Glenarvon: still he leant upon the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy remembrances.

“Sing once again,” she said, at length interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I first heard you:—those notes reached the heart.” “Did they?” he cried, approaching her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, one ardent kiss. The blood rushed from her heart in alarm and agitation:—she trembled and turned from him. “There is no cause,” he said, gently following her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet one; the last alone is full of bitterness.”

“Sing to me” she said, confused and terrified, “for God’s sake, approach me not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will sing,” he said, “and check those fears,” saying which he began. It was not like a song, but a sort of soft low murmur, with an air of such expression and empassioned feeling, that every note said more than words: it vibrated to the soul.

“Farewell.”

Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me,

I must not—dare not—look on thee;

Too well thou know’st how dear thou art,

’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part:

I wish thee not to share my grief,

It seeks, it hopes, for no relief.

“Farewell.”

Come give thy hand, what though we part,

Thy name is fixed, within my heart;

I shall not change, nor break the vow

I made before and plight thee now;

For since thou may’st not live for me,

’Tis sweeter far to die for thee.

“Farewell.”

Thoult think of me when I am gone

None shall undo, what I have done;