CHAPTER LXXXIII.Happily for Miss Monmouth, at the very moment her consent was given, Lady Margaret placed a letter in Glenarvon’s hands, which threw him into the deepest agitation, and obliged him instantly, and for a short time, to hasten to England. He went there in company with Lady Margaret; and strange as it may appear, the love, the idolatry, he had professed for so many, seemed now with greater vehemence than for others transferred to herself. Whether from artifice or caprice, it is unnecessary to say, but Lady Margaret at least made shew of a return. She never lost sight of him for one moment. She read with him; she talked with him; she chided him with all the wit and grace of which shewas mistress; and he, as if maddening in her presence, gazed on her with wild delight; and seemed inclined to abandon every thing for her sake.Lady Margaret applied to her numerous friends for the ship which had long been promised to Lord Glenarvon, as a reward for his former services. She wrote to Sir George Buchanan for his appointment; she spoke with eloquence of his misfortunes; and whether from her representations, or some other cause, his titles and estates were at length restored to him. Thanking her for the zeal she had shewn, he proposed to return with her immediately to Italy.She now hesitated. Her brother had written to her: these were the words of his letter: “Buchanan is desirous that his marriage should be celebrated in this place. Miss Monmouth, I fear, has been compelled to accept his hand; and I should pity her, if such force did notsave her from a far worse fate. I mean a marriage with Glenarvon.”Glenarvon was by Lady Margaret’s side when this letter was received. He held one of Lady Margaret’s white hands in his: he was looking upon the rings she wore, and laughingly asking her if they were the gifts of Dartford. “Look at me, my beautiful mistress,” he said, with the triumph of one secure. She carelessly placed the letter before his eyes. “Correct your vanity,” she said, whilst he was perusing it, alluding to the words he had written to Calantha; “exert your caprices upon others more willing to bear them; and leave me in peace.”Stung to the soul, Glenarvon started; and gazed on her with malignant rage: then grinding his teeth with all the horror of supprest rage, “I am not a fly to be trodden upon, but a viper that shall sting thee to the heart. Farewell for ever,” he cried, rushing from her. Thenreturning one moment with calmness, and smiling on her, “you have not grieved me,” he said gently: “I am not angry, my fair mistress. We shall meet again: fear not we shall meet again.” “Now I am lost,” said Lady Margaret, when he was gone. “I know by that smile that my fate is sealed.”There is nothing so uncongenial to the sorrowing heart as gaiety and mirth; yet Calantha was at this time condemned to witness it. No sickness, no sufferings of its owners, prevented extraordinary festivities at the castle. Upon the evening of the celebration of Buchanan’s marriage, there were revels and merry-making as in happier times; and the peasantry and tenants, forgetful of their cabals and wrongs, all appeared to partake in the general festivity. The ribband of green was concealed beneath large bouquets of flowers; and healths and toasts went round with tumults of applause, regardless of the sorrows of the owners of thecastle. The lawn was covered with dancers. It was a cheerful scene; and even Calantha smiled, as she leant upon her father’s arm, and gazed upon the joyful countenances which surrounded her; but it was the smile of one whose heart was breaking, and every tenant as he passed by and greeted her looked upon the father and the child, and sighed at the change which had taken place in the appearance of both.Suddenly, amidst the dancers, with a light foot, as if springing from the earth, there appeared, lovely in beauty and in youth, the fairest flower of Belfont. It was Miss St. Clare. No longer enveloped in her dark flowing mantle, she danced amidst the village maidens, the gayest there. She danced with all the skill of art, and all the grace of nature. Her dress was simple and light as the web of the gossamer: her ringlets, shining in the bright sun-beams, sported with the wind: red was her cheek as the firstblush of love, or the rose of summer, when it opens to the sun.Upon the lake the boats, adorned with many coloured ribbands, sailed with the breeze. Bands of music played underneath the tents which were erected for refreshments. The evening was bright and cloudless. Elinor was the first and latest in the dance—the life and spirit of the joyous scene. Some shrunk back it is true at first, when they beheld her; but when they saw her smile, and that look of winning candour, which even innocence at times forgets to wear, that playful youthful manner, re-assured them. “Can it be possible!” said Calantha, when the music ceased, and the villagers dispersed—“can you indeed affect this gaiety, or do you feel it, St. Clare?” “I feel it,” cried the girl, laughing archly. “The shafts of love shall never pierce me; and sorrows, though they fall thicker than the rain of Heaven, shall never break my heart.” “Oh! teachme to endure afflictions thus. Is it religion that supports you?” “Religion!” St. Clare sighed.“Yon bright heaven,” she said, uplifting her eyes, “is not for me. The time has been, when, like you, I could have wept, and bowed beneath the chastening rod of adversity; but it is past. Turn you, and repent lady; for you are but young in sin, and the heart alone has wandered. Turn to that God of mercy, and he will yet receive and reclaim you.” A tear started into her eyes, as she spoke. “I must journey on; for the time allowed me is short. Death walks among us even now. Look at yon lordly mansion—your father’s house. Is it well defended from within? Are there bold hearts ready to stand forth in the time of need? Where is the heir of Delaval:—look to him:—even now they tear him from you. The fiends, the fiends are abroad:—look to your husband, lady—the gallant Earl of Avondale:red is the uniform he wears; black is the charger upon which he rides; but the blood of his heart shall flow. It is a bloody war we are going to: this is the year of horror!!! Better it were never to have been born, than to have lived in an age like this.”“Unhappy maniac,” said a voice from behind. It was the voice of the Bard Camioli: “unhappy St. Clare!” he said. She turned; but he was gone. Every one now surrounded Miss St. Clare, requesting her to sing. “Oh I cannot sing,” she replied, with tears, appealing to Calantha; then added lower—“my soul is in torture. That was a father’s voice, risen from the grave to chide me.”Calantha took her hand with tenderness; but Miss St. Clare shrunk from her. “Fly me,” she said, “for that which thou thinkest sweet has lost its savour. Oh listen not to the voice of the charmer, charm she ever so sweetly. Yet ere we part, my young and dear protectress,take with you my heart’s warm thanks and blessings; for thou hast been kind to the friendless—thou hast been merciful to the heart that was injured, and in pain. I would not wish to harm thee. May the journey of thy life be in the sunshine and smiles of fortune. May soft breezes waft thy gilded bark upon a smooth sea, to a guileless peaceful shore. May thy footsteps tread upon the green grass, and the violet and the rose spring up under thy feet.” Calantha’s pale cheeks and falling tears were her only answer to this prayer.
Happily for Miss Monmouth, at the very moment her consent was given, Lady Margaret placed a letter in Glenarvon’s hands, which threw him into the deepest agitation, and obliged him instantly, and for a short time, to hasten to England. He went there in company with Lady Margaret; and strange as it may appear, the love, the idolatry, he had professed for so many, seemed now with greater vehemence than for others transferred to herself. Whether from artifice or caprice, it is unnecessary to say, but Lady Margaret at least made shew of a return. She never lost sight of him for one moment. She read with him; she talked with him; she chided him with all the wit and grace of which shewas mistress; and he, as if maddening in her presence, gazed on her with wild delight; and seemed inclined to abandon every thing for her sake.
Lady Margaret applied to her numerous friends for the ship which had long been promised to Lord Glenarvon, as a reward for his former services. She wrote to Sir George Buchanan for his appointment; she spoke with eloquence of his misfortunes; and whether from her representations, or some other cause, his titles and estates were at length restored to him. Thanking her for the zeal she had shewn, he proposed to return with her immediately to Italy.
She now hesitated. Her brother had written to her: these were the words of his letter: “Buchanan is desirous that his marriage should be celebrated in this place. Miss Monmouth, I fear, has been compelled to accept his hand; and I should pity her, if such force did notsave her from a far worse fate. I mean a marriage with Glenarvon.”
Glenarvon was by Lady Margaret’s side when this letter was received. He held one of Lady Margaret’s white hands in his: he was looking upon the rings she wore, and laughingly asking her if they were the gifts of Dartford. “Look at me, my beautiful mistress,” he said, with the triumph of one secure. She carelessly placed the letter before his eyes. “Correct your vanity,” she said, whilst he was perusing it, alluding to the words he had written to Calantha; “exert your caprices upon others more willing to bear them; and leave me in peace.”
Stung to the soul, Glenarvon started; and gazed on her with malignant rage: then grinding his teeth with all the horror of supprest rage, “I am not a fly to be trodden upon, but a viper that shall sting thee to the heart. Farewell for ever,” he cried, rushing from her. Thenreturning one moment with calmness, and smiling on her, “you have not grieved me,” he said gently: “I am not angry, my fair mistress. We shall meet again: fear not we shall meet again.” “Now I am lost,” said Lady Margaret, when he was gone. “I know by that smile that my fate is sealed.”
There is nothing so uncongenial to the sorrowing heart as gaiety and mirth; yet Calantha was at this time condemned to witness it. No sickness, no sufferings of its owners, prevented extraordinary festivities at the castle. Upon the evening of the celebration of Buchanan’s marriage, there were revels and merry-making as in happier times; and the peasantry and tenants, forgetful of their cabals and wrongs, all appeared to partake in the general festivity. The ribband of green was concealed beneath large bouquets of flowers; and healths and toasts went round with tumults of applause, regardless of the sorrows of the owners of thecastle. The lawn was covered with dancers. It was a cheerful scene; and even Calantha smiled, as she leant upon her father’s arm, and gazed upon the joyful countenances which surrounded her; but it was the smile of one whose heart was breaking, and every tenant as he passed by and greeted her looked upon the father and the child, and sighed at the change which had taken place in the appearance of both.
Suddenly, amidst the dancers, with a light foot, as if springing from the earth, there appeared, lovely in beauty and in youth, the fairest flower of Belfont. It was Miss St. Clare. No longer enveloped in her dark flowing mantle, she danced amidst the village maidens, the gayest there. She danced with all the skill of art, and all the grace of nature. Her dress was simple and light as the web of the gossamer: her ringlets, shining in the bright sun-beams, sported with the wind: red was her cheek as the firstblush of love, or the rose of summer, when it opens to the sun.
Upon the lake the boats, adorned with many coloured ribbands, sailed with the breeze. Bands of music played underneath the tents which were erected for refreshments. The evening was bright and cloudless. Elinor was the first and latest in the dance—the life and spirit of the joyous scene. Some shrunk back it is true at first, when they beheld her; but when they saw her smile, and that look of winning candour, which even innocence at times forgets to wear, that playful youthful manner, re-assured them. “Can it be possible!” said Calantha, when the music ceased, and the villagers dispersed—“can you indeed affect this gaiety, or do you feel it, St. Clare?” “I feel it,” cried the girl, laughing archly. “The shafts of love shall never pierce me; and sorrows, though they fall thicker than the rain of Heaven, shall never break my heart.” “Oh! teachme to endure afflictions thus. Is it religion that supports you?” “Religion!” St. Clare sighed.
“Yon bright heaven,” she said, uplifting her eyes, “is not for me. The time has been, when, like you, I could have wept, and bowed beneath the chastening rod of adversity; but it is past. Turn you, and repent lady; for you are but young in sin, and the heart alone has wandered. Turn to that God of mercy, and he will yet receive and reclaim you.” A tear started into her eyes, as she spoke. “I must journey on; for the time allowed me is short. Death walks among us even now. Look at yon lordly mansion—your father’s house. Is it well defended from within? Are there bold hearts ready to stand forth in the time of need? Where is the heir of Delaval:—look to him:—even now they tear him from you. The fiends, the fiends are abroad:—look to your husband, lady—the gallant Earl of Avondale:red is the uniform he wears; black is the charger upon which he rides; but the blood of his heart shall flow. It is a bloody war we are going to: this is the year of horror!!! Better it were never to have been born, than to have lived in an age like this.”
“Unhappy maniac,” said a voice from behind. It was the voice of the Bard Camioli: “unhappy St. Clare!” he said. She turned; but he was gone. Every one now surrounded Miss St. Clare, requesting her to sing. “Oh I cannot sing,” she replied, with tears, appealing to Calantha; then added lower—“my soul is in torture. That was a father’s voice, risen from the grave to chide me.”
Calantha took her hand with tenderness; but Miss St. Clare shrunk from her. “Fly me,” she said, “for that which thou thinkest sweet has lost its savour. Oh listen not to the voice of the charmer, charm she ever so sweetly. Yet ere we part, my young and dear protectress,take with you my heart’s warm thanks and blessings; for thou hast been kind to the friendless—thou hast been merciful to the heart that was injured, and in pain. I would not wish to harm thee. May the journey of thy life be in the sunshine and smiles of fortune. May soft breezes waft thy gilded bark upon a smooth sea, to a guileless peaceful shore. May thy footsteps tread upon the green grass, and the violet and the rose spring up under thy feet.” Calantha’s pale cheeks and falling tears were her only answer to this prayer.