Chapter 1

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.”