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 roomimmediately 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 murderedenemy, 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 lightof 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 followedhis 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 shalldine 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.
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 roomimmediately 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 murderedenemy, 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 lightof 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 followedhis 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 shalldine 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.