Lord Avondale sought, in an active and manly profession, for some newer interest, in which every feeling of ambition could have part; and she, surrendering her soul to the illusive dream of a mad and guilty attachment, boasted that she had found again the happiness she had lost; and contrasted even the indifference of her husband, to the ardour, the devotion, the refined attention of a newly acquired friend. CHAPTER XV. O better had it been to die than to see and hear Glenarvon. When he smiled, it was like the light radiance of heaven; and when he spoke, his voice was more soothing in its sweetness than music. He was so gentle in his manners, that it was in vain even to affect to be offended; and, though he said he never again could love, he would describe how some had died, and others maddened, under the power of that fierce passion—how every tie that binds us, and every principle and law, must be broken through, as secondary considerations, by its victims:—he would speak home to the heart; for he knew it in all its turnings and windings; and, at his will, he could rouze or tame the varying passions of those over whom he sought to exercise dominion. Yet, when by every art and talent he had raised the scorching flames of love, tearing himself from his victim, he would leave her, then weep for the agony of grief by which he saw her destroyed. Had he betrayed in his manner to Calantha that freedom, that familiarity so offensive in men, but yet so frequent amongst them, she would yet have shuddered. But what was she to fly? Not from the gross adulation, or the easy flippant protestations to which all women are soon or late accustomed; but from a respect, at once refined and flattering—an attention devoted even to her least wishes, yet without appearing subservient—a gentleness and sweetness, as rare as they were fascinating; and these combined with all the powers of imagination, vigour of intellect, and brilliancy of wit, which none ever before possessed in so eminent a degree; and none ever since have even presumed to rival. Could she fly from a being unlike all others—sought for by every one, yet, by his own confession, wholly and entirely devoted to herself. How cold, compared with Glenarvon was the regard her family and friends affected! Was it confidence in her honour, or indifference? Lord Glenarvon asked Calantha repeatedly, which it most resembled—he appealed to her vanity even, whether strong affection could thus neglect and leave the object of its solicitude? Yet, had she done nothing to chill a husband and parent’s affection—had she not herself lessened the regard they had so faithfully cherished?