The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count,
though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon
took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were.
Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening.
Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort
her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense,
O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of
his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back
door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a
portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching
an opportunity hastened to the door. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited
her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was
Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when
she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been
betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and
every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said
the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said
O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward.
“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured;
confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I
contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause
the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the
cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never,
never,” she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said,
in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets
upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou
read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back
with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared
for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty;
grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am
thus with you.”
There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays
his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the
commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look,
so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful
countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that
very time he shrunk from the joy she professed; for he knew that he had
led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever.
“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let
me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my
soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes;
for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that
I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name!
Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to
thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it.
You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to
hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love
me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and
received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me
some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been my victims; I,
alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have
made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you,
and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your
pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who
affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary
exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing
by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed
upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in
the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched
victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary
path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than
when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my
agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their
suspicions; but do not you refuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I
have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast
away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the
only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal
perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou
consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the
strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor,
every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah
say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?”
“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more
miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible
you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will
consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her
full in the face. “Alas! if I do thus, how will yourself despise me.
When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with
infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how
will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from
the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue
spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every
opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought
against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will
teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it
is nothing to it.”
“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget
the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me
die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,”
said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I
will trust you; but not till then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as
she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I
do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You
love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look
not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers
of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I
will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.”
“And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.”
“Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview
with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that
you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but
of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what
disguise would I not assume to see you?”
O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his
ear.—“I will attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.”
“Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks:
you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will
trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly
interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said
Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all
without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady
Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though
I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if
you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to
the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he
promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home.