To wake is terrible when the heaviness of sin is upon us!—to wake, and
see every object around us the same as before; but to feel that we are
utterly changed! I am still in a father’s house, she thought, as late
the ensuing morning she opened her eyes. “My name is not yet branded
with disgrace; but I belong alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. Seymour
sent for her: the nurse entered with the children. But Calantha looked
upon the ring, and trembled.
Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, dressing in haste, entered Mrs.
Seymour’s room. Never had she found it easy to deceive till that moment.
To tell her the truth had been to kill her: she feigned therefore with
ease, for her aunt’s life required it, and she herself was desperate.
“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” she replied, nor
blushed at affirming it. “Two days, and you have not seen Glenarvon?”
she said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I thought one had killed
me,” replied Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” and she hurried from
her presence.
Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode out the whole of the day: it seemed
to her as if a moment’s pause or rest would have been agony unutterable.
And yet, when the spirit is heavy there is something unpleasant in the
velocity of motion: throwing, therefore, the reins upon her well-trained
steed, she paced slowly over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections
which it had been pain to interrupt.
Suddenly a horse and rider, in full speed, darting along the moor,
approached and crossed upon her path. “Whither ride you lady, so slow?”
said Miss St. Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce reining in her swift
footed charger. “And whither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said Calantha,
courteously returning her salute. “To perdition,” cried Elinor; “and
they that wish to follow must ride apace.” The hat and plume of sacred
green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, were all but too well
observed by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. Clara, fixing her dark
eyes upon her, asked her respecting him. “Is thy young lover well?” she
said; “and wilt thou be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: he
could not rest: didst thou?” Saying which, she smiled, and rode away.
Oppressed with many bitter doubts, Calantha returned to the Castle; and
what is strange, she felt coldly towards Glenarvon. On her return, she
found letters from him far the most ardent, the most impassioned she
had yet received. He spoke with grief of her unkindness: he urged her
by every tie most dear, most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. Yet,
that night, she went not to meet him; she wrote not kindly; she loved
not. She retired early; and her thoughts were painful and terrible. But
such is the inconsistency of the human heart; her coldness seemed but
to encrease his ardour. She received that night, the warmest, the most
unguarded letters; she even now dreaded the violence of his attachment.
Remorse, she felt, had taken the place of passion in her own heart: for
all within was chilled, was changed.
As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling to think—unable to forget,
she heard a step stealing along the passage; and in a moment Glenarvon
entered her apartment. “We are lost,” she cried. “I care not,” he said,
“so that I but see you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak lower,”
he said, approaching her: “be calm, for think you that when you have
risked so much for me, I dare not share the danger. After all, what is
it? Whoever enters must do it at their peril: their life shall pay the
forfeit: I am armed.”—“Good God! how terrible are your looks: I love
you; but I fear you.”
“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, “that day when I first told you of my
love? You blushed then, and wept: did you not? But you have forgotten
to do either now. Why, then, this strange confusion?”—“I am sick at
heart. Leave me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear of all earthly beings,
turn not thus away from me; look not as if you feared to meet me; feel
not regret; for if it be a crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me alone.
I know how men of the world can swear and forswear: I know, too, how
much will be attempted to sever you from me: but by that God in whose
sacred eye we stand; by all that the human heart and soul can believe
and cherish, I am not one of that base kind, who would ever betray the
woman that trusted in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, I could not
change. You are all on earth that I love, and, perhaps what is better
worth, that I esteem and respect—that I honor as above every other in
goodness, purity and generous noble feelings. O! think not so humbly
of yourself: say not that you are degraded. My admiration of you shall
excuse your error: my faithful attachment whilst existence is given to
either of us shall atone for all. Look on me, my only friend; dry up
the tears that fall for an involuntary fault; and consider me as your
protector, your lover, your husband.”
There required not many words, not many protestations. Calantha wept
bitterly; but she felt happy. “If you change now,” she said, “what will
become of me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, from this country: I ask
not for other ties than those that already bind us. Yet I once more
repeat it, I know you must despise me.”—“What are words and vows, my
heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what are they? The false, the vain, the
worldly-minded have made use of them; but I must have recourse to them,
Calantha, since you can look at me, and yet mistrust me. No villany that
ever yet existed, can exceed that which my falsehood to you would now
evince. This is no common worldly attachment: no momentary intoxication of
passion. Often I have loved: many I have seen; but none ever sacrificed
for me what you have done; and for none upon earth did I ever feel what
I do for you. I might have made you mine long ago: perhaps I might have
abused the confidence shewn me, and the interest and enthusiasm I had
created; but, alas! you would then have despised me. I conquered myself;
but it was to secure you more entirely. I am yours only: consent therefore
to fly with me. Make any trial you please of my truth. What I speak I
have written: my letters you may shew, my actions you may observe and
sift. I have not one thought that is unknown to you—one wish, one hope
of which you are not the first and sole object. Many disbelieve that I
am serious in my desire that you should accompany me in my flight. They
know me not: I have no views, no projects. Men of the world look alone
to fortune, fame, or interest; but what am I? The sacrifice is solely on
your part: I would to God it were on mine. If even you refuse to follow
me, I will not make this a plea for abandoning you: I will hover around,
will protect, will watch over you. Your love makes my happiness: it is
my sole hope in life. Even were you to change to me, I could not but be
true to you.”
Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to accompany him: he risked much;
and seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding the guileful
heart; and he who had deceived many, could assuredly deceive her. Yet
it appears, that he urged her more than ever to fly with him; and that
when, at length she said that her resolution was fixed—that she would
go, his eyes in triumph gloried in the assurance; and with a fervour he
could not have feigned he called her his. Hitherto, some virtuous, some
religious hopes, had still sustained her: now all ceased; perversion
led the way to crime, and hardness of heart and insensibility followed.
One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her confessions of former scenes.
One by one, he betrayed to her the confidence others had reposed in his
honour. She saw the wiles and windings of his mind, nor abhorred them:
she heard his mockery of all that is good and noble; nor turned from
him. Is it the nature of guilty love thus to pervert the very soul? Or
what in so short a period could have operated so great a change? Till
now the hope of saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had led her on: now
frantic and perverted passion absorbed all other hopes; and the crime he
had commended, whatever had been its drift, she had not feared to commit.
Calantha had read of love, and felt it; she had laughed at the sickening
rhapsodies of sentiment, and turned with disgust from the inflammatory
pages of looser pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented every feeling
she most abhorred; and it was in herself, she found the reality of all
that during her whole existence, she had looked upon with contempt and
disgust. Every remaining scruple left her; she still urged delay; but
to accompany her master and lover, was now her firm resolve.