Strange as it may appear, a husband, unless his eyes are opened by
the confession of his guilty partner, is the last to believe in her
misconduct; and when the world has justly stamped disgrace upon her
name, he shares in his wife’s dishonour, for he is supposed by all to
know, and to connive at her crime. But though this be a painful truth,
experience every day confirms, that a noble and confiding husband is too
often, and too easily deceived. In the marriage state there is little
love, and much habitual confidence. We see neglect and severity on the
part of the man; and all the petty arts and cunning wiles on the side of
his more frail and cowardly partner. Indifference first occasions this
blindness; infatuation increases it; and in proportion as all interest
is lost for the object who so deceives, such husband lives the dupe of
the wife, who despises him for his blindness and dies in the same happy
illusion, in which he has so long passed away his life. He even presses
to his heart, as he leaves them his possessions, the children of some
deceitful friend, who, under the plea of amity to himself, has fed upon
his fortunes, and seduced the affections of his wife.
Disgusting as such picture may be thought, is it not, unhappily for us,
daily exhibited to the public view? and shall they who tolerate and see
it, and smile in scorn at its continued and increasing success, affect
to start with horror from Calantha’s tale? or to discredit that Avondale
was yet ignorant of her guilt? He was ofttimes engaged with the duties
of his profession—nor thought that whilst risking his life in the service
of his country, the woman he loved and confided in, had betrayed him.
His cheeks were red with the hue of health; his eyes shone bright with
sparkling intelligence; he laughed the loud heart’s laugh at every merry
jest, and slept with unbroken slumbers, the sleep of the righteous and
the just. Calantha looked upon him as we look afar off upon some distant
scene where we once dwelt, and from which we have long departed. It
awakens in our memory former pains and pleasures; but we turn from it
with bitterness; for the sight is distressing to us.
Harry Mowbray loved his father and followed him; the baby Anabel held
out her arms to him when he passed; but Calantha assumed a stern coldness
in his presence, and replied to his few enquiries with all the apparent
insensibility of a proud and offended mind: yet such is the imperfection
of human nature, that it is possible Lord Avondale cherished her the
more for her very faults. Certain it is, that he felt proud of her,
and every casual praise which, even from the lips of strangers, was
bestowed on Calantha, gave him more delight than any profession, however
flattering, that could have been made to himself. To see her blest
was his sole desire; and when he observed the change in her manner and
spirits, it grieved, it tortured him:—he sought, but in vain, to remove
it. At length business of importance called him from her. “Write,” he
said, at parting, “write, as you once used. My presence has given but
little satisfaction to you; I dare not hope my absence will create pain.”
“Farewell,” said Lady Avondale, with assumed coldness. “There are false
hearts in this world, and crimes are enacted, Henry, at home ofttimes,
as well as abroad. Confide in no one. Believe not what your own eyes
perceive. Life is but as the shadow of a dream. All here is illusion.
We know not whom we love.”
How happy some may imagine—how happy Calantha must have felt now that
Lord Avondale was gone. Far from it. She for the first time felt remorse.
His departure filled her with gloom:—it was as if her last hope of
safety were cut off; as if her good angel had for ever abandoned her;
and with a reserve and prudence, which in his presence, she had failed
to assume, she now turned with momentary horror from the near approach
of vice. The thought of leaving her home and Lord Avondale, had not
indeed ever seriously occurred, although she constantly listened to the
proposal of doing so, and acted so as to render such a step necessary.
She had seen Lord Avondale satisfied, and whilst Lord Glenarvon was near
her, no remorse obtruded—no fear occurred—she formed no view for the
future. To die with him, or to live but for that moment of time, which
seemed to concentrate every possible degree of happiness, this was the
only desire of which she had felt capable. But now, she shuddered—she
paused:—the baseness of betraying a noble, confiding husband, struck
her mind, and filled it with alarm; but such alarm appeared only to
accelerate her doom. “If I can resist and remain without deeper guilt, I
will continue here,” she cried; “and if I fail in the struggle, I will
fly with Glenarvon.”—This false reasoning consoled her. A calm, more
dangerous than the preceding agitation, followed this resolve.
Glenarvon had changed entirely in his manner, in his character; all art,
all attempt at wounding or tormenting was passed. He seemed himself the
sufferer, and Calantha, the being upon whose attachment he relied, he was
as fearful of vexing her, as she was of losing him. On earth he appeared
to have no thought but her; and when again and again he repeated, “I
never loved as I do now,—oh never.” It may be doubted whether that heart
exists which could have disbelieved him. Others who affect only, are
ever thoughtful of themselves; and some plan, some wary and prudential
contrivance frequently appears, even in the very height of their passion.
The enjoyment of the moment alone, and not the future continuance of
attachment, employs their hopes. But Glenarvon seemed more anxious to
win every affection of her heart; to fix every hope of her soul upon
himself; to study every feeling as it arose, sift every motive, and
secure his empire upon all that was most durable, than to win her in the
usual acceptation of the word. And even though jealous that she should
be ready to sacrifice every principle of honour and virtue, should he
demand it, he had a pride in saving her from that guilt into which she
was now voluntarily preparing to plunge.
Day by day, the thought of leaving all for him appeared more necessary
and certain.—She no longer shuddered at the mention of it. She heard him
describe their future life—the countries they should visit; and it even
pleased her to see that he was sincere in his intentions. No disguise
was now required: he called not the fire that burnt in his heart by
the name of friendship and of interest: “it is love,” he cried, “—most
guilty—most unconquerable. Hear it, mark it, and yet remain without
alarm. Ah! think not that to share it alone is required: your soul must
exult, that it has renounced every hope beyond; and Glenarvon’s love
must entirely fill your affections. Nay more, you shall sue for the
sacrifice which is demanded of others. Yourself shall wish it; for I
will never wrest from you that which, unless freely given, is little
worth. Perhaps, even when you desire to be mine, I, even I shall spare
you, till maddening with the fierce fires that devour us, you abandon
all for me.”
He now opened to her the dark recesses of his heart; deeds of guilt
concealed from other eyes, he now dwelt upon to Calantha with horrid
pleasure. “Shrink not, start not,” he exclaimed, when she trembled at each
new confession. “Proud, even of my crimes, shalt thou become, poor victim
of thy mad infatuation; this is the man for whom thou leavest Avondale!
Mark me Calantha,—view me as I am, nor say hereafter that Glenarvon
could deceive.” “And do you never feel remorse?” she said.—“Never.” “Do
you believe?—” His countenance for one moment altered. “I know not,” he
said, and he was grave. “Oh must I become as hard as wicked” she said,
bursting into tears. He pressed her mournfully to his bosom. “Weep,” he
replied, “I like to see your tears; they are the last tears of expiring
virtue. Henceforward you will shed no more.”
Those who have given way to the violence of any uncontrouled passion,
know that during its influence all other considerations vanish. It is of
little use to upbraid or admonish the victim who pursues his course: the
fires that goad him on to his ruin, prevent his return. A kind word, an
endearing smile, may excite one contrite tear; but he never pauses to
reflect, or turns his eyes from the object of his pursuit. In vain the
cold looks of an offended world, the heavy censures, and the pointed,
bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. Misfortunes, poverty, pain,
even to the rack, are nothing if he obtain his view. It is a madness
that falls upon the brain and heart. All is at stake for that one throw;
and he who dares all, is desperate, and cannot fear. It was phrenzy,
not love, that raged in Calantha’s bosom.
To the prayers of a heart-broken parent, Lady Avondale opposed the
agonizing threats of a distempered mind. “I will leave you all, if you
take him from me. On earth there is nothing left me but Glenarvon.—Oh
name not virtue and religion to me.—What are its hopes, its promises,
if I lose him.” The fever of her mind was such, that she could not for
one hour rest: he saw the dreadful power he had gained, and he lost
no opportunity of encreasing it. Ah did he share it? In language the
sweetest, and the most persuasive, he worked upon her passions, till he
inflamed them beyond endurance.
“This, this is sin,” he cried, as he held her to his bosom, and breathed
vows of ardent, burning love. “This is what moralists rail at, and
account degrading. Now tell them, Calantha, thou who didst affect to be
so pure—so chaste, whether the human heart can resist it? Religion bids
thee fly me,” he cried: “every hope of heaven and hereafter warns thee
from my bosom. Glenarvon is the hell thou art to shun:—this is the hour
of trial. Christians must resist. Calantha arise, and fly me; leave me
alone, as before I found thee. Desert me, and thy father and relations
shall bless thee for the sacrifice: and thy God, who redeemed thee, shall
mark thee for his own.” With bitter taunts he smiled as he thus spoke:
then clasping her nearer to his heart, “Tell both priests and parents,”
he said exultingly, “that one kiss from the lips of those we love, is
dearer than every future hope.”
All day,—every hour in the day,—every instant of passing time Glenarvon
thought but of Calantha. It was not love, it was distraction. When near
him, she felt ecstacy; but if separated, though but for one moment,
she was sullen and desponding. At night she seldom slept; a burning
fever quickened every pulse: the heart beat as if with approaching
dissolution,—delirium fell upon her brain. No longer innocent, her fancy
painted but visions of love; and to be his alone, was all she now wished
for, or desired on earth. He felt, he saw, that the peace of her mind,
her life itself were gone for ever, and he rejoiced in the thought.