Few women know how to conceal successful love, but none can conceal
their doubt, resentment and jealousy. Men can do both, and both without
a struggle. They feel less, and fear more. But this was not the case
with Lord Glenarvon, nor did he wish to appear indifferent; he only
wished Calantha to feel his power, and he delighted in the exhibition
of it. In vain she had formed the best resolutions, they were now all
rendered useless. Lord Glenarvon had forestalled her wise intention, no
coldness—no indifference she could assume, had equalled that, which he
either affected or felt.
Upon the bosom of Mrs. Seymour, Calantha wept for her fault; it was
infatuation, she said, she was cured: the lesson, though somewhat harsh,
had not been fruitless. Again, she made every promise, which affection and
repentance could suggest. She heard the name of her husband pronounced,
and longed to throw herself before him, and commend herself to his mercy.
I do repent, indeed I do, said Calantha, repeatedly in the course of the
day; and she thought her penitence had been sincere. Humbled now, and
gentle, she thought only of pleasing her aunt, Lord Avondale, and her
friends. She was desired to play during the evening: to shew her ready
obedience she immediately obeyed. Lord Glenarvon was in an adjoining
room; he entered when she began: springing up, Lady Avondale left the
harp; then, seeing Lord Avondale surprised, she prepared to tune it.
Lord Glenarvon approached, and offered her his hand, she refused it.
“Will you play?” he said—and she turned the key with so much force that
it broke the chords asunder. “You have wound them too tight, and played
upon them too often,” he said. “Trifle not with me thus—I cannot play
now,” she replied. “Leave me, I entreat you.” “You know not what you have
done,” he replied. “All I ask—all I implore is, that you will neither
come near me, nor speak to me more, for I am mad.” “Women always recover
from these paroxysms,” said he, gaily. Calantha attempted to play, and
did so extremely ill, after which she went to bed, happier, it must
be owned, for she had seen in Lord Glenarvon’s manner that he was not
indifferent, and this rendered it more easy for her to appear so.
The next morning Lady Avondale went out immediately after breakfast,
without speaking to Lord Glenarvon. He twice attempted it, but with real
anger, she refused to hear him. It was late in the day, when, having
sought for her before dinner, he at length found her alone. His voice
faultered, his eyes were filled with tears. “Lady Avondale—Calantha,”
he said, approaching her, “forgive me.—I ask it of you, and more, if
you require it, I will kneel—will sue for it. You can make me what you
please—I am wholly in your power.” “There is no need for this,” she said
coldly.
“I will not rise till you forgive me. If you knew all—if ... but can you
indeed believe me indifferent, or cold? Look at me once: raise your eyes
and behold him, who lives but in you.” “All this is useless, you have
grieved me; but I do not mean to reproach, the idle complainings of a
woman are ever useless.” “To think that she suffers,” said Glenarvon,
“is enough. Look once—once only, look upon me.” “Let us part in peace,”
she replied: “I have no complaint to make, I have nothing to forgive,”
“raise your eyes, and look—Calantha look once on me.”
She turned to him, she saw that face whose every feature was engraved
deep in her very heart—that smile of sweetness—that calm serenity, she
had not power to speak—to think; and yet recovering from this strange
enchantment,—“How could you betray me?” she said. “I judge you not,
but I can never feel either interest, or friendship again.” “Yet,” said
Glenarvon gravely, “I need both at this time, for I am miserable and ill
too, only I do not wish to excite your compassion by these arts, and I
had rather die unforgiven, than use any towards you.”
“Wherefore did you betray me?” “Can you ask? I was deeply wounded. It is
not enough for me that you love me, all must, and shall know it. I will
make every sacrifice for you—run every risk: but every risk and every
sacrifice must be shared.” “Whatever my feelings may be,” she answered
coldly, “you shall never subdue me again. I may be infatuated, but I
will never be criminal—You may torture me as you please, if you have the
power over me which you imagine, but I can bear torture, and none ever
yet subdued me.”
“Calantha,” said Lord Glenarvon, taking her hand firmly, and smiling half
scornfully, “you shall be my slave. I will mould you as I like; teach you
to think but with my thoughts, to act but with my feelings, you shall
wait nor murmur—suffer, nor dare complain—ask, and be rejected—and all
this, I will do, and you know it, for your heart is already mine.” “If I
forgive you,” she cried, “If you do not” he said, approaching nearer. “I
never will.” “And ’till you do, though your whole family should enter,
I will kneel here—here, even at your feet.” “You think to menace me.” “I
know my empire. Take off those ornaments: replace what I have given you:
this too you shall wear,” he said, throwing a chain around her, “Turn
from me if you can: the heart that I have won, you cannot reclaim, and
though the hand be thus denied me, this, this is mine.” Saying this, he
pressed her lips to his, a strange feeling thrilled to her heart as she
attempted vainly to hate him, or extricate herself from his embrace.
“I love you to madness,” he said, and you distract me. “Trust yourself
entirely to me, it is the only means of safety left. Yes, Calantha, I
will do for you, what no man ever did before. If it destroy me, I will
never lead you to guilt, only rely upon me, be guided by me.” “You
ran the risk she said, of our being separated for ever, of making my
aunt miserable. Of——.” “Nonsense child, I never risk any thing, it was
necessary your aunt should know, and the fear of losing you entirely will
make her readily consent to my seeing you more than ever,” “Oh God! what
guilt. Think not that my attachment is such as to bear it.” “It shall
bear all things,” said Glenarvon; “but if you sacrifice what I desire,
I will conquer every wrong feeling for your sake? Our friendship will
then be innocent.” “Not absolutely ... indeed I fear it; and if——” “Ah!
leave these gloomy thoughts. If love should triumph—if you feel half for
me, what I feel from my soul for you, then you shall accompany me from
hence. Avondale may easily find another wife, but the world contains
for me but one Calantha.”
Lady Avondale felt happy.—Shame on the guilty heart that dared to feel
so! but alas, whilst Glenarvon thus addressed her, she did feel most
happy. In a moment, the gloom that had overshadowed her future hopes,
was dispelled. She saw her lover—her friend more than ever united to
her. He consented even to respect what remaining virtue she had left,
and from his gentle, his courteous words, it was not her wish to escape.
Yet still she resolved to leave him. Now, that peace was again restored,
that her irritated mind was calm, that her vanity was flattered, and
her pride satisfied, now the admonitions of her aunt recurred, and even
while her heart beat fondest for him, she pronounced her own doom, and
declared to him that she would tear herself away from him for ever.
“Perhaps this must be,” he said, after a moment’s pause; “but not yet,
Calantha, ah not yet.” As he spoke, he again pressed her to his bosom,
and his tears fell over her. Oh! had he not thus wept, Calantha had not
loved him. Struggling with his feelings for her, he generously resolved
to save, to spare her. “Remember this,” he said, “when they condemn
me.—Remember, Calantha, what I have done for you; how I have respected
you; and let not their idle clamours prevail.”
Lady Avondale was too happy to feel vain. Glenarvon loved, as she never
had been loved before, every hour—every moment of each passing day
he seemed alone intent, and occupied with her; he wrote his minutest
thoughts; he counselled, he did not command. He saw that power, ambition,
was her ruling passion, and by affecting to be ruled, he completely
mastered her—in word, in look, in thought, he was devoted to her. Other
men think only of themselves; Glenarvon conquered himself a thousand
times for her. What is a momentary, a degrading passion to the enjoyment
she felt in his society? It only lowers the object of its fancy, he
sought to raise her even in her own esteem. “Forgive her, pity us,” he
said, addressing Mrs. Seymour, who saw in a moment, with alarm, their
reconciliation. “Drive us not to despair, I will respect her—will preserve
her, if you do not attempt to tear her from me, but dread the violence
of madness, if you reduce us to the last rash step. Oh dread the violence
of a mad and incurable attachment.”
Calantha’s sole attention was now to hide from those it might grieve,
the change which a few days had again wrought. She appeared at dinner,
she seated herself opposite to Glenarvon. There was no look of exultation
in his countenance, his eyes met her’s mournfully. The diamond bracelets
that adorned her arms, had been given her by him; the chain and locket
which contained his dark hair, had been placed around her neck in token
of his regard; the clasp that fastened the band around her waist, was
composed of richest jewels brought by him from distant countries; and the
heart that was thus girt round and encircled with his gifts, beat only
for him, regardless of every other tie. “Oh my child! my child!” said
Mrs. Seymour, gazing on her in agony. “I will never reproach you, but do
not break my heart. You are ill in mind and health, you know not what
you say or do; God forgive and pardon you, my unhappy Calantha!” “Bear
with me a few moments,” said Lady Avondale much agitated: “I will part
from him; only give me time. Fear me not: I will neither leave you nor
act wickedly, but if you seek too hastily to sever us, oh my aunt, you
may be the means of driving two desperate minds to misery and madness.”