CHAPTER LXXXII.On quitting Castle Delaval, Lord Glenarvon went as he had promised, to Mr. Monmouth’s seat in Wales, by name, Mortanville Priory. There, in a large and brilliant society, he soon forgot Calantha. Lady Augusta rallied him for his caprice; Lady Mandeville sought to obtain his confidence: tears and reproaches are ever irksome; and the confidence that had once been placed in a former mistress, now suddenly withdrawn, was wholly given to her. A petitioner is at all times intrusive; and sorrow at a distance but serves to encrease the coldness and inconstancy it upbraids. The contrast is great between smiling and triumphant beauty, and remorse, misery and disgrace. And, ifevery reason here enumerated were insufficient, to account for a lover’s inconstancy, it is enough in one word to say, that Lady Avondale was absent; for Lord Glenarvon was of a disposition to attend so wholly to those, in whose presence he took delight, that he failed to remember those to whom he had once been attached; so that like the wheels of a watch, the chains of his affections might be said to unwind from the absent, in proportion as they twined themselves around the favourite of the moment; and being extreme in all things, he could not sufficiently devote himself to the one, without taking from the other all that he had given.’Twere vain to detail the petty instances of barbarity he made use of. The web was fine enough, and wove with a skilful hand. He even consulted with Lady Mandeville in what manner to make his inhuman triumph more poignant—more galling; and when he heardthat Calantha was irritated even unto madness, and grieved almost unto death, he only mocked at her for her folly, and despised her for her still remaining attachment to himself. “Indeed she is ill,” said Sophia, in answer to his insulting enquiry, soon after her arrival at Mortanville Priory. “She is even dangerously ill.” “And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn. “Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony, “which never will endanger your health—of a broken heart.” He laughed. “Of deep remorse,” she continued. “And no regret?” said he, looking archly at her. “Do not jest,” she retorted: “the misery which an unhallowed attachment must in itself inflict, is sufficient, I should think, without adding derision to every other feeling.” “Does Miss Seymour speak from experience or conjecture?”Before Miss Seymour could answer, Lady Mandeville, who was present,whispered something to Glenarvon; and he laughed. Sophia asked eagerly what she was saying. “It is a secret,” said Glenarvon significantly. “How happy must Lady Mandeville be at this moment!” said Lady Augusta, “for every one knows that the greatest enjoyment the human mind can feel, is when we are in the act of betraying a secret confided to us by a friend, or informing an enemy of something upon which the life and safety of another depends.” “Come,” said Lady Mandeville, “you are very severe; but I was only urging Lord Glenarvon to listen to Miss Seymour’s admonitions in a less public circle. Miss Monmouth may be displeased if she hears of all this whispering.” So saying, she took Glenarvon’s arm, and they walked out of the room together.“After all, he is a glorious creature,” said Lady Trelawney. “I wish I had a glorious creature to walk with me this morning,” said Lady Augusta with asneer; “but how can I hope for support, when Calantha, who had once thousands to defend her, and whom I left the gayest where all were gay, is now dying alone, upbraided, despised, and deserted. Where are her friends?” “She fell by her own fault entirely,” said Lord Trelawney. “Her life has been one course of absurdity. A crime here and there are nothing, I well know,” said Lady Augusta; “but imprudence and folly, who can pardon?” “She has a kind heart,” said Frances. “Kind enough to some,” said her lord; “but talk not of her, for I feel indignant at her very name.” “There is nothing excites our indignation so strongly,” said Lady Augusta, “as misfortune. Whilst our friends are healthy, rich, happy, and, above all, well dressed and gaily attended, they are delightful, adorable. After all, your sensible judicious people on the long run are the best: they keep a good eye to their own interest; andthese flighty ones are sure to get into scrapes. When they do, we flatterers have an awkward part to play: we must either turn short about, as is the case now, or stand up in a bad cause, for which none of us have heart or spirit.” “There is no excuse for Calantha,” said Miss Seymour. “God forbid I should look for one,” said Lady Augusta. “I am like a deer, and ever fly with the herd: there is no excuse, Miss Seymour, ever, for those who are wounded and bleeding and trodden upon. I could tell you—but here come these glorious creatures! Are you aware, that when Lady Avondale sent a few days since for her lover’s portrait, and a lock of his hair, Lady Mandeville yesterday in an envelope enclosed a braid of her own.C’est piquant cela: j’admire!” “How illnatured the world is!” said Miss Monmouth, who had heard the latter part of this discourse. “Not illnatured or wicked, my dear,”said Lady Augusta; “only weak, cowardly and inordinately stupid.” “With what self-satisfaction every one triumphs at the fall of those whose talents or situation raise them a little into observation!” said Miss Monmouth. “Common sense is so pleased,” said Lady Augusta, “when it sees of how little use any other sense is in this life, that one must forgive its triumph; and its old saws and wholesome truisms come out with such an increase of length and weight, when the enemy to its peace has tumbled down before it, that it were vain to attempt a defence of the culprit condemned. I know the world too well to break through any of the lesser rules and customs imposed, but you, my dear, know nothing yet: therefore I cannot talk to you.”Miss Monmouth was the only child of the Honorable Mr. Monmouth, a near relation of Lady Mowbrey’s. Her youth, her innocence, a certain charm of mannerand of person, rare and pleasing, had already, apparently, made some impression upon Glenarvon. He had secretly paid her every most marked attention. He had even made her repeatedly the most honourable offers. At first, trembling and suspicious, she repulsed the man of whom rumour had spoken much, which her firm principles and noble generous heart disapproved; but soon attracted and subdued by the same all splendid talents, she heard him with more favourable inclinations. She was, herself, rich in the possession of every virtue and grace; but, alas! too soon she was over-reached by the same fascination and disguise which had imposed upon every other.Amongst the many suitors who at this time appeared to claim Miss Monmouth’s hand, Buchanan was the most distinguished. Lady Margaret eagerly desired this marriage. She put every engine to work in a moment to defeat Glenarvon’sviews, and secure the prize for her son. She even left Ireland upon hearing of his increasing influence, and joined for a few weeks the party at Mortanville Priory. The parents of Miss Monmouth were as eager for Buchanan, as the young lady was averse. Glenarvon saw with bitterness the success his rival had obtained, and hated the friends and parents of Miss Monmouth for their mistrust of him. By day, by night, he assailed an innocent heart, not with gross flattery, not with vain professions. He had a mask for every distinct character he wished to play; and in each character he acted to the very life.In this instance, he threw himself upon the generous mercy of one who already was but too well inclined to favour him. He candidly acknowledged his errors; but he cast a veil over their magnitude; and confessed only what he wished should be known. Miss Monmouth, he said, should reform him; her gentle voiceshould recall his heart from perversion; her virtues should win upon a mind, which, the errors of youth, the world and opportunity had misled.Miss Monmouth was the idol of her family. She was pure herself, and therefore unsuspicious. Talents and judgment had been given her with no sparing hand; but to these, she added the warmest, the most generous heart, the strongest feelings, and a high and noble character. To save, to reclaim one, whose genius she admired, whose beauty attracted, was a task too delightful to be rejected. Thousands daily sacrifice their hearts to mercenary and ambitious views; thousands coldly, without one feeling of enthusiasm or love, sell themselves for a splendid name; and can there be a mind so cold, so corrupted, as to censure the girl, who, having rejected a Buchanan, gave her hand and heart, and all that she possessed, to save, to bless, and to reclaim a Glenarvon.
On quitting Castle Delaval, Lord Glenarvon went as he had promised, to Mr. Monmouth’s seat in Wales, by name, Mortanville Priory. There, in a large and brilliant society, he soon forgot Calantha. Lady Augusta rallied him for his caprice; Lady Mandeville sought to obtain his confidence: tears and reproaches are ever irksome; and the confidence that had once been placed in a former mistress, now suddenly withdrawn, was wholly given to her. A petitioner is at all times intrusive; and sorrow at a distance but serves to encrease the coldness and inconstancy it upbraids. The contrast is great between smiling and triumphant beauty, and remorse, misery and disgrace. And, ifevery reason here enumerated were insufficient, to account for a lover’s inconstancy, it is enough in one word to say, that Lady Avondale was absent; for Lord Glenarvon was of a disposition to attend so wholly to those, in whose presence he took delight, that he failed to remember those to whom he had once been attached; so that like the wheels of a watch, the chains of his affections might be said to unwind from the absent, in proportion as they twined themselves around the favourite of the moment; and being extreme in all things, he could not sufficiently devote himself to the one, without taking from the other all that he had given.
’Twere vain to detail the petty instances of barbarity he made use of. The web was fine enough, and wove with a skilful hand. He even consulted with Lady Mandeville in what manner to make his inhuman triumph more poignant—more galling; and when he heardthat Calantha was irritated even unto madness, and grieved almost unto death, he only mocked at her for her folly, and despised her for her still remaining attachment to himself. “Indeed she is ill,” said Sophia, in answer to his insulting enquiry, soon after her arrival at Mortanville Priory. “She is even dangerously ill.” “And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn. “Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony, “which never will endanger your health—of a broken heart.” He laughed. “Of deep remorse,” she continued. “And no regret?” said he, looking archly at her. “Do not jest,” she retorted: “the misery which an unhallowed attachment must in itself inflict, is sufficient, I should think, without adding derision to every other feeling.” “Does Miss Seymour speak from experience or conjecture?”
Before Miss Seymour could answer, Lady Mandeville, who was present,whispered something to Glenarvon; and he laughed. Sophia asked eagerly what she was saying. “It is a secret,” said Glenarvon significantly. “How happy must Lady Mandeville be at this moment!” said Lady Augusta, “for every one knows that the greatest enjoyment the human mind can feel, is when we are in the act of betraying a secret confided to us by a friend, or informing an enemy of something upon which the life and safety of another depends.” “Come,” said Lady Mandeville, “you are very severe; but I was only urging Lord Glenarvon to listen to Miss Seymour’s admonitions in a less public circle. Miss Monmouth may be displeased if she hears of all this whispering.” So saying, she took Glenarvon’s arm, and they walked out of the room together.
“After all, he is a glorious creature,” said Lady Trelawney. “I wish I had a glorious creature to walk with me this morning,” said Lady Augusta with asneer; “but how can I hope for support, when Calantha, who had once thousands to defend her, and whom I left the gayest where all were gay, is now dying alone, upbraided, despised, and deserted. Where are her friends?” “She fell by her own fault entirely,” said Lord Trelawney. “Her life has been one course of absurdity. A crime here and there are nothing, I well know,” said Lady Augusta; “but imprudence and folly, who can pardon?” “She has a kind heart,” said Frances. “Kind enough to some,” said her lord; “but talk not of her, for I feel indignant at her very name.” “There is nothing excites our indignation so strongly,” said Lady Augusta, “as misfortune. Whilst our friends are healthy, rich, happy, and, above all, well dressed and gaily attended, they are delightful, adorable. After all, your sensible judicious people on the long run are the best: they keep a good eye to their own interest; andthese flighty ones are sure to get into scrapes. When they do, we flatterers have an awkward part to play: we must either turn short about, as is the case now, or stand up in a bad cause, for which none of us have heart or spirit.” “There is no excuse for Calantha,” said Miss Seymour. “God forbid I should look for one,” said Lady Augusta. “I am like a deer, and ever fly with the herd: there is no excuse, Miss Seymour, ever, for those who are wounded and bleeding and trodden upon. I could tell you—but here come these glorious creatures! Are you aware, that when Lady Avondale sent a few days since for her lover’s portrait, and a lock of his hair, Lady Mandeville yesterday in an envelope enclosed a braid of her own.C’est piquant cela: j’admire!” “How illnatured the world is!” said Miss Monmouth, who had heard the latter part of this discourse. “Not illnatured or wicked, my dear,”said Lady Augusta; “only weak, cowardly and inordinately stupid.” “With what self-satisfaction every one triumphs at the fall of those whose talents or situation raise them a little into observation!” said Miss Monmouth. “Common sense is so pleased,” said Lady Augusta, “when it sees of how little use any other sense is in this life, that one must forgive its triumph; and its old saws and wholesome truisms come out with such an increase of length and weight, when the enemy to its peace has tumbled down before it, that it were vain to attempt a defence of the culprit condemned. I know the world too well to break through any of the lesser rules and customs imposed, but you, my dear, know nothing yet: therefore I cannot talk to you.”
Miss Monmouth was the only child of the Honorable Mr. Monmouth, a near relation of Lady Mowbrey’s. Her youth, her innocence, a certain charm of mannerand of person, rare and pleasing, had already, apparently, made some impression upon Glenarvon. He had secretly paid her every most marked attention. He had even made her repeatedly the most honourable offers. At first, trembling and suspicious, she repulsed the man of whom rumour had spoken much, which her firm principles and noble generous heart disapproved; but soon attracted and subdued by the same all splendid talents, she heard him with more favourable inclinations. She was, herself, rich in the possession of every virtue and grace; but, alas! too soon she was over-reached by the same fascination and disguise which had imposed upon every other.
Amongst the many suitors who at this time appeared to claim Miss Monmouth’s hand, Buchanan was the most distinguished. Lady Margaret eagerly desired this marriage. She put every engine to work in a moment to defeat Glenarvon’sviews, and secure the prize for her son. She even left Ireland upon hearing of his increasing influence, and joined for a few weeks the party at Mortanville Priory. The parents of Miss Monmouth were as eager for Buchanan, as the young lady was averse. Glenarvon saw with bitterness the success his rival had obtained, and hated the friends and parents of Miss Monmouth for their mistrust of him. By day, by night, he assailed an innocent heart, not with gross flattery, not with vain professions. He had a mask for every distinct character he wished to play; and in each character he acted to the very life.
In this instance, he threw himself upon the generous mercy of one who already was but too well inclined to favour him. He candidly acknowledged his errors; but he cast a veil over their magnitude; and confessed only what he wished should be known. Miss Monmouth, he said, should reform him; her gentle voiceshould recall his heart from perversion; her virtues should win upon a mind, which, the errors of youth, the world and opportunity had misled.
Miss Monmouth was the idol of her family. She was pure herself, and therefore unsuspicious. Talents and judgment had been given her with no sparing hand; but to these, she added the warmest, the most generous heart, the strongest feelings, and a high and noble character. To save, to reclaim one, whose genius she admired, whose beauty attracted, was a task too delightful to be rejected. Thousands daily sacrifice their hearts to mercenary and ambitious views; thousands coldly, without one feeling of enthusiasm or love, sell themselves for a splendid name; and can there be a mind so cold, so corrupted, as to censure the girl, who, having rejected a Buchanan, gave her hand and heart, and all that she possessed, to save, to bless, and to reclaim a Glenarvon.