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:—Heobserved 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. Helooked 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 arrayingNature in charms, to thee can make it fair.Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtrayingYears past of bliss, and future of despair.To the tune of Ils ne sont plusSidy. Hall sculpt.Gondimar seemed affected whilst he sung; and Calantha felt nearly suffocated with every sort of feeling. Lady Augustapretended 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 thatraged 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.
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:—Heobserved 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. Helooked 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 arrayingNature in charms, to thee can make it fair.Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtrayingYears past of bliss, and future of despair.
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 arrayingNature in charms, to thee can make it fair.Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtrayingYears past of bliss, and future of despair.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 arrayingNature in charms, to thee can make it fair.Ill fated love, clouds all thy path, pourtrayingYears past of bliss, and future of despair.
—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.
To the tune of Ils ne sont plusSidy. Hall sculpt.
Sidy. Hall sculpt.
Gondimar seemed affected whilst he sung; and Calantha felt nearly suffocated with every sort of feeling. Lady Augustapretended 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 thatraged 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.