Glenarvon wandered forth every evening by the pale moon, and no one knew
whither he went, and no one marked but Calantha how late was his return.
And when the rain fell heavy and chill, he would bare his forehead to the
storm; and faint and weary wander forth, and often he smiled on others
and appeared calm, whilst the burning fever of his blood continued to
rage within.
Once Calantha followed him, it was at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld
her, no mark of surprise or joy. She followed him to the rocks called the
Black Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain called the Wizzard’s Glen;
there was a lonely cottage near the cleft where St. Clara, it was said,
had taken up her abode. He knocked; but she was from home: he called;
but no one replied from within. Her harp was left at the entrance of
a bower: a few books and a table were also there. Glenarvon approached
the harp and leaning upon it, fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly
upon Calantha. “Others who formerly felt or feigned interest for me,”
he said “were either unhappy in their marriage, or in their situation;
but you brave every thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how little do you
know the heart for which you are preparing to sacrifice so much.”
The place upon which they stood was wild and romantic; the sea murmured
beneath them; distant sounds reached them from the caverns; and the
boats passed to and fro within the harbour. The descent was rugged and
dangerous. Calantha looked first upon the scene, and then upon Glenarvon:
still he leant upon the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy
remembrances.
“Sing once again,” she said, at length interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I
first heard you:—those notes reached the heart.” “Did they?” he cried,
approaching her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, one ardent kiss.
The blood rushed from her heart in alarm and agitation:—she trembled
and turned from him. “There is no cause,” he said, gently following
her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet one; the last alone is full
of bitterness.”
“Sing to me” she said, confused and terrified, “for God’s sake, approach
me not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will sing,” he said, “and check those
fears,” saying which he began. It was not like a song, but a sort of
soft low murmur, with an air of such expression and empassioned feeling,
that every note said more than words: it vibrated to the soul.
“Farewell.”
Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me,
I must not—dare not—look on thee;
Too well thou know’st how dear thou art,
’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part:
I wish thee not to share my grief,
It seeks, it hopes, for no relief.
“Farewell.”
Come give thy hand, what though we part,
Thy name is fixed, within my heart;
I shall not change, nor break the vow
I made before and plight thee now;
For since thou may’st not live for me,
’Tis sweeter far to die for thee.
“Farewell.”
Thoult think of me when I am gone
None shall undo, what I have done;
Yet even thy love I would resign
To save thee from remorse like mine;
Thy tears shall fall upon my grave:
They still may bless—they cannot save.
[Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.]
“Sing no more,” said Calantha, “let us return home. I know not what I
say, or do. Judge not of my feelings by those which predominate in your
presence. I may be weak, I acknowledge your power, I am lost irretrievably
if you are resolved upon it.” “Calantha”, said Lord Glenarvon firmly,
“you may trust implicitly to my honor.—These are the last guilty words,
I will ever suffer to pass my lips. Henceforward consider me only as
your friend—as such accept my hand.”
At that moment, they were interrupted; a bark from Inis Tara approached
the shore, and O’Kelly, Lord Glenarvon’s servant, and two other men
alighted. “To avoid observation, I will join my friends one moment,” he
said, “if you will walk gently home, I can overtake you,—but, perhaps
you will await my return.” “I will go home: it is late,” said Calantha.
He appeared much vexed; “well then I will await your return,” saying
this Calantha descended with him the rugged path down the cliff, and
watched the lessening bark, and heard the distant shouts from some of his
followers who were assembled in the cavern, as they hailed his approach
to land: after which a long silence prevailed, alone interrupted by the
rippling of the waves. The meeting was apparently over: there were whole
parties returning from below, in different directions.
Whilst yet awaiting lord Glenarvon’s return, Calantha heard the same
air repeated, which he had so lately played. It seemed as if the wind,
as it blew along the wooded shores had struck upon the chords. It was
strange; for Glenarvon was gone. She turned in haste, and from above
beheld a young man. Ah no—it was St. Clara. Too soon she saw that it
was her. Her ear had caught the last murmurs of Glenarvon’s song, and
her hand feebly repeated the strain. But, soon perceiving Calantha, she
gazed with wild alarm one moment upon her, then, throwing the plumed hat
aside, with a grace and ease peculiar to herself, she struck the full
chords, and her clear voice ascended upon the air in soft impassioned
numbers. Lady Avondale heard the words of her song as it murmured along
the breeze.
(To the air of, “_Hear me swear how much I love_.”)
By that smile which made me blest,
And left me soon the wretch you see—
By that heart I once possest,
Which now, they say, is given to thee—
By St. Clara’s wrongs and woes—
Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.
By those lays which breathe around
A poet’s great and matchless art—
By that voice whose silver sound
Can soothe to peace th’ imprisoned heart—
By every bitter pang I prove—
Trust not young Glenarvon’s love.
Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,
Bereft of all that made life dear
My health impaired, my spirit breaking,
Yet still too proud to shed one tear:
O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,
Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.
And when at length the hand of death
Shall bid St. Clara’s heart be still—
When struggling with its latest breath,
His image shall her fancy fill,
Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
What fate attends Glenarvon’s love.
Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to approach her. “Beautiful, unhappy St.
Clara, I will be your friend—will protect you.” She ran forward, and
climbed the steep ascent with ease; but the youthful harper arose—her
dark sunny ringlets waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: she slightly
bowed to Calantha as if in derision; and laughing, as she upheld a chain
with an emerald ring, bounded over the rocks with an activity, which
long habit had rendered familiar.
Calantha beheld her no more: but the distant shouts of applause re-echoed
as at first among the caverns and mountains; and the bark with Lord
Glenarvon soon reappeared in sight. She awaited his return. As he
approached the beach, a loud murmur of voices from behind the rock
continued. He joined her in a moment. His countenance was lighted with
the ray of enthusiasm:—his altered manner shewed the success his efforts
had obtained. He told Calantha of his projects; he described to her the
meetings which he had held by night and day; and he spoke with sanguine
hope of future success—the freedom of Ireland, and the deathless renown
of such as supported her fallen rights. “Some day you must follow me,”
he cried: “let me shew you the cavern beneath the rock, where I have
appointed our meeting for the ensuing week.”
“I will walk no more with you to Inis Tara:—the harp sounds mournfully
on those high cliffs:—I wish never more to hear it.” “Have you seen
St. Clara?” he said, without surprise. “She sings and plays well, does
she not? But she is not dear to me: think not of her. I could hate
her, but that I pity her. Young as she is, she is cruelly hardened and
vindictive.”—“I cannot fear her: she is too young and too beautiful to
be as abandoned as you would make me think.”—“It is those who are young
and beautiful you should fear most,” said he, approaching her more
nearly.—“I may fear them,” she replied, “but can you teach me to fly
them?”
It was now late: very little else passed: they returned home, where
they were received with considerable coldness. But Lady Mandeville,
perceiving the state of suffering to which Calantha had reduced herself,
generously came forward to sooth and to assist her. She appeared really
attached to her; and at this time more even than at any former period,
shewed her sincere and disinterested friendship. And yet she was the
person Mrs. Seymour distrusted; and even Glenarvon spoke of her with
asperity and disdain. “Adelaide! though an envious world may forsake
thee, a grateful friend shall stand firm by thee to the last.” Such
were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, languidly throwing her
rounded arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, and sighed to think of
the misery she was preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I see how he loves
thee,” she continued, “I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.”
That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady Avondale. His letter repeated all
he had before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. She had scarce
received it, scarce placed it in her bosom, when Lady Margaret attacked
her. “You think,” she said, “that you have made a conquest. Silly child,
Lord Glenarvon is merely playing upon your vanity.” Lady Augusta whispered
congratulations: Sophia hoped she was pleased with her morning walk; Sir
Everard coldly asked her if she had beheld his niece, and then, with
a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it was vastly pleasant to depend upon
certain people’s promises.
All this time Calantha felt not grieved: Glenarvon had said he loved
her: it was enough: his attachment was worth all else beside; and Lord
Avondale’s increasing neglect and coldness steeled her heart against
the crime of inconstancy.
Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity of speaking to her. “If
you accept my friendship,” he said frowning, “I must be obeyed:—you
will find me a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. If I once love,
it is with fervor—with madness. I must have no trifling, no rivals. The
being I worship must be pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, think
not that it is to let others approach her. No, Lady Avondale; not even
what appears most innocent to you, shall be endured by me. I shall be
jealous of every look, word, thought. There must be no shaking of hands,
no wearing of chains but such as I bestow, and you must write all you
think and feel without reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if you have
the power; but if you remain, you already know your fate.”
Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt the necessity. To-morrow, she
said, she would go. That to-morrow came, and she had not strength.
Glenarvon wrote constantly: she replied with the same openness. “Your
letters chill me,” he said, “call me your friend, your lover: call
me Glenarvon—Clarence if you will. All these forms, these regulations
are odious amongst those who are attached. Say that you love, beloved
Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; for I see it, and know it.
There is no greater crime in writing it than in feeling it.” Calantha
said it too soon—too soon she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my friend,
my comforter:” such were the terms she used. Shame to the pen, the hand
that dared to trace them. Days, and days passed, and soon Glenarvon was
all on earth to her; and the love he felt or feigned, the only hope and
happiness of her existence.