In the course of the day, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha “I have never sought
to win you to me after the manner other men might desire,” he said.
“I have respected your opinions; and I have resisted more than woman’s
feelings can conceive. But Calantha you have shared the struggle. I have
marked in your eye the fire of passion, in the quivering of your lip and
changing complexion, the fierce power which destroyed you. When in the
soft language of poetry, I have read to you, or spoken with the warmth
I knew not how to feign, you have turned from me it is true; but pride
more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. Every principle in your
heart is shaken; every tie that ought to bind thee most, is broken; and
I who should triumph at my success, weep only for thy fall. I found thee
innocent, confiding and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh God! wilt thou
thus be left? wilt thou know that thy soul itself partakes in thy guilt,
wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you have
given me a solemn promise to meet me in secret: it is the first time
concealment has been rendered necessary. I know your nature too well, not
to be convinced that you are already preparing to retract. Do so, if it
be your will:—I wish you not to take one step without fully appreciating
its consequences, and the crime incurred. I have never disguised to you
the guilt of our attachment since the moment in which I felt assured of
my own sentiments. I wished you to feel the sacrifice you were making:
how otherwise could I consider it as any? my love is worth some risk.
Every one knows my weakness; and did you feel half what you inspire,
you would be proud, you would glory in what you now attempt to hide.
The woman I love, must see, must hear, must believe and confide in no
other but me. I renounce every other for you—And, now that I claim you
as my own, expect the fulfilment of your many professions. Shew me that
you can be firm and true: give yourself to me entirely: you are mine;
and you must prove it. I am preferred before every earthly being in
my Calantha’s heart—my dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed I have
long ceased to entertain a single doubt; but now I require more. Even
in religious faith—even in hopes, in reliance upon the mercy of God, I
cannot bear a competitor and a rival.”
“There is a rite accounted infamous amongst christians:—there is an oath
which it is terrible to take. By this, by this alone, I will have you
bound to me—not here alone, but if there be a long hereafter then shall
we evermore be linked together: then shall you be mine far more, far
dearer than either mistress or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery of
superstition: but what on earth deserves a higher name? Every varying
custom and every long-established form, whether in our own land, or
those far distant tracts which the foot of man has rarely traversed,
deserves no higher name. The customs of our forefathers—the habit of
years, give a venerable and sacred appearance to many rites; but all is
a dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the frail perishable attempts of
human invention. Even the love we feel, Calantha—the beaming fires which
now stimulate our hearts, and raise us above others is but illusion—like
the bright exhalations which appear to mislead, then vanish and leave
us more gloomy than before.”
Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand was cold; no varying colour, no
trepidation shewed either life or vigour; there was a struggle in her
mind; and a voice seemed to call to her from her inmost soul: “For the
last time, Calantha, it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last time
I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience as it cries to thee for
the last time:—go not to thy ruin; plunge not thy soul into the pit
of hell; hurl not destruction upon thy head. What is this sin against
thy religion? How canst thou throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy
God? It is a mere mockery of words; a jealous desire to possess every
avenue of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee from every feeling of
remorse and virtue; to plunge thee in eternal perdition. Hear me: by
thy mother’s name I call: go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... “Am I
mad, or wherefore is my soul distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again to me:
my comforter—my heart’s friend, oh leave me not. By every tie thou art
bound to me: never, never will I forsake thee. What are the reproaches of
conscience—what the fancied pangs of remorse, to the glory, the ecstacy
of being thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, perhaps, by all who hear
my fate, I have lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity I may be
called upon to endure. Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. Thy words are
like the joys of Heaven: Thy presence is the light of life: existence
without thee would not be worth the purchase.—Come all the woes that
may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.”
The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She
would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.”
The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with
affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love
by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp,
as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the
affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.”
I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will
regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character
of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony
mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious
ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not
judge who cannot understand.
Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands
the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow
Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was
forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe,
that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a
culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s
house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death
for my sake.
Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of
offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits
of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was
all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier!
alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can
I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she
prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock:
she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for
the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but
he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within
was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not
thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the
signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.”