One night, as she retired to her room, Gondimar met her in the passage,
leading from Mrs. Seymour’s apartment. “Lost woman,” he cried, fiercely
seizing her, “you know not what you love;—look to his hand, there is
blood on it!...” That night was a horrid night to Calantha; she slept,
and the dream that oppressed her, left her feeble and disordered. The
ensuing day she walked by the shores of the sea: she bared her forehead
to the balmy gales. She looked upon every cheerful countenance in hopes
of imbibing happiness from the smile that brightened theirs, but it was
vain.
Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. They walked together to the mountains;
they conversed; and half in jest she asked him for his hand,—“not that
hand,” she said, “give me your right hand: I wish to look upon it.”
“I believe I must refuse you, your manner is so strange,” he replied.
“Do if you please, for the reason I wish to see it is more so. It was
a dream, a horrid dream, which made me ill last night. The effect,
perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” “I should like to hear it. Are
you superstitious?” “No; but there are visions unlike all others, that
impress us deeply, and this was one. I almost fear to tell it you.” “I
too have dreamt,” said he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought only to
my fancy, the dearest wishes of my heart. Oh would to God that I might
live to realize a dream like that, which blest me yesternight. Shall I
repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad for it; but mine, if indeed you wish
it, you may hear.”
“I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat it) that I was in some far distant
country. I was standing by the sea, and the fresh air blew gently upon
me, even as it does now; but ... it was night. There was a dirge sung as
in monasteries, and friars passed to and fro, in long procession before
me. Their torches now and then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt was
mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all this was confused.—That which
was more striking, I remember better. A monk in black stood before me;
and whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to a height unusual and monstrous:
he seemed to possess some authority over me, and he questioned me as to
my conduct and affections. I tried to disguise from him many thoughts
which disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried manner of others; I named you
not. He shook his head; and then looking fiercely at me, bade me beware
of Clarence de Ruthven (for so he called you). I never can forget his
voice. All others you may see, you may converse with; but, Calantha,
beware,” he said, “of Clarence de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” “A
what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. “I dare not continue.”
Glenarvon, however, insisted upon hearing this. “I never, never can
tell,” said Calantha, “for you look so much offended—so serious.—After
all, what nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” “That which seems to
have made no little impression upon Lady Avondale’s mind, cannot fail of
awakening some interest in mine. It is a very strange vision,” continued
he, fixing his eyes on her. “These idle phantasies are but repetitions
of the secret workings of the mind. Your own suspicions have coloured
this. Go on, let me hear all.” “Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I
seemed in my dream to doubt his words. Only this I remember:—he bade
me ask you for your hand—your right hand; he said there was a stain of
blood on it; and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he will not give it
you; there is a mark upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I awoke.”
“To think me every thing however bad, that your monk may chuse to make
me out. Well foolish dreamer, look at my hand: say, is there a mark
on it?” The laugh which accompanied this question was forced. Calantha
started back, as she again observed that almost demoniac smile. His eyes
glared upon her with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks became pale; and
over his forehead, an air of deep distress struggled with the violence
of passion, till all again was calm, cold, and solemn, as before. She
was surprised at his manner; for although he made light of it, he was
certainly displeased, and much moved by this foolish occurrence.
Glenarvon continued absent and irritable during the whole of the walk;
nor ceased enquiring oftentimes that day, respecting what she had said. It
appeared to her less extraordinary, when she remembered the circumstances
concerning Linden; yet he had so often acknowledged that event to her,—so
often spoke of him with pity and regret, that had he merely thought she
alluded to such transaction, he had been proud of the effort he had made
to save him, and of the blood he had shed upon that account. Whatever
then occasioned this strange perturbation;—however far imagination might
wander, even though it pictured crimes unutterable,—under Glenarvon’s
form all might be forgiven. Passion, perhaps, had misled its victim, and
who can condemn another when maddening under its trying influence! It
was not for Calantha to judge him. It was her misfortune to feel every
thing with such acute and morbid sensibility, that what in others had
occasioned a mere moment of irritation, shook every fibre around her
heart. The death of a bird, if it had once been dear, made her miserable;
and the slightest insult, as she termed it, rendered her furious.
Severity but caused a desperate resistance, and kindness alone softened
or subdued her. Glenarvon played upon every passion to the utmost; and
when he beheld her, lost beyond all recall, he seemed to love her most.
How vain were it to attempt to paint the struggles, the pangs, the
doubts, the fears, the endless unceasing irritation of a mind disordered
by guilty love. Remorse had but little part in the disease; passion
absorbed every feeling, every hope; and to retain Glenarvon was there
any thing his weak and erring victim had refused? Alas! the hour came,
when even to leave all and follow him appeared incumbent. The very ruin
such conduct must occasion to Calantha, engaged her more eagerly to
agree to the proposal.
Lady Margaret was now at times engaged with him in secret discourses,
which occasioned much apparent dissention between them; but Calantha
was not the subject. “He has the heart of a fiend,” Lady Margaret would
often exclaim, as she left him; and Calantha could perceive that, with
all her power of dissimulation, she was more moved more irritated by
him, than she ever had been before by any other. He also spoke of Lady
Margaret with bitterness, and the asperity between them grew to such a
height, that Calantha apprehended the most fatal effects from it. Still,
however, the Duke wished to conciliate a dangerous and malignant foe;
and though his visits to the castle were short, compared with what they
had been, they were as frequent as ever.