Glenarvon had retired unperceived by any, on the evening he had visited
her, in her apartment. The following day he appeared at the castle; they
both avoided each other: she indeed trembled at beholding him. “Meet me
at the chapel to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she obeyed too well.
They were returning through the wood: she paused one moment to look upon
the sea: it was calm; and the air blew soft and fresh upon her burning
forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... a female figure, passing through
the thicket behind, with a hasty step approached them, and knelt down
as if imploring for mercy. Her looks were wild; famine had stamped its
hollow prints in furrows on her cheeks; she clasped her hands together;
and fixing her eyes wildly upon Glenarvon, remained in silence.
Terrified, Calantha threw herself for safety at his feet; and he clasping
her closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh Glenarvon,” she cried, “look,
look; it is not a human form: it is some dreadful vision, sent to us
by the power of God, to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, fear not: no
power shall harm you.”
Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed for one moment on the thin and
ghastly form, that had occasioned her terror. “God bless you,” cried the
suppliant. He started at the hollow sound. It seemed to him indeed that
the awful blessing was a melancholy reproach for his broken faith. He
started: for in that emaciated form, in that wild and haggard eye, he
thought he recognized some traces of one whom he had once taken spotless
as innocence to his heart,—then left a prey to remorse and disappointment.
For the sake of that resemblance, he offered money to the wretch who
implored his mercy, and turned away, not to behold again so piteous, so
melancholy a spectacle.
Intently gazing upon him, she uttered a convulsive groan, and sunk
extended on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon both flew forward to
raise her. But the poor victim was no more: her spirit had burst from
the slight bonds that yet retained it in a world of pain and sorrow.
She had gazed for the last time upon her lover, who had robbed her of
all happiness through life; and the same look, which had first awakened
love in her bosom, now quenched the feeling and with it life itself.
The last wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a curse for him who had
abandoned her: and the tear that he shed unconsciously over a form so
altered, that he did not know her, was the only tear that blessed the
last hour of Calantha’s once favorite companion Alice Mac Allain.
Oh! need a scene which occasioned her every bitter pang be repeated?—need
it be said that, regardless of themselves or any conclusions which their
being together at such an hour might have occasioned: they carried the
unconscious girl to the door of the castle, where O’Kelly was waiting
to receive them. Every one had retired to rest; it was late; and one of
Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly alone remained in fearful anxiety watching
for their return.
Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless form before her, Calantha
turned to Glenarvon. But his countenance was changed; his eyes were fixed.
“It is herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the sight, a faintness came
over him:—the name of Alice was pronounced by him. O’Kelly understood
his master. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the girl in
his arms, he promised Calantha to do all in his power to restore her,
and only implored her to retire to her own apartment: “For my master’s
sake, dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He was indeed no longer the
same subservient strange being, he had shewn himself hitherto; he seemed
to assume a new character, on an occasion which called for his utmost
exertion; he was all activity and forethought, commanding every thing
that was to be done, and awakening lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a
sense of their situation.
Although Lady Avondale was at last persuaded to retire, it may be supposed
that she did not attempt to rest; and being obliged in some measure to
inform her attendant of what had passed, she sent her frequently with
messages to O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy friend. At last
she returned with a few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. “Calantha,”
he said, “You will now learn to shudder at my name, and look upon me
with horror and execration. Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is Alice
whom we beheld. She came to take one last look at the wretch who had
seduced, and then abandoned her:—She is no more. Think not, that to
screen myself, I have lost the means of preserving her.—Think me not
base enough for this; but be assured that all care and assistance have
been administered. The aid of the physician, however has been vain. Calm
yourself Calantha: I am very calm.”
The maid, as she gave this note, told Calantha that the young woman
whom Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door of the castle, was poor
Miss Alice—so altered, that her own father, she was sure would not know
her. “Did you see her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly took me to see her,
when I carried the message to him: and there I saw my Lord Glenarvon so
good, so kind, doing every thing that was needed to assist her, so that
it would have moved the heart of any one to have seen him.” While the
attendant thus continued to talk, her young mistress wept, and having
at length dismissed her, she opened the door, listening with suspense
to every distant noise.
It was six in the morning, when a loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused
her hurrying down, she beheld a number of servants carrying some one
for air, into one of the outer courts. It was not the lifeless corpse
of Alice. From the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared a larger form,
and, upon approaching still nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving
that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, who having arisen to enquire
into the cause of the disquiet he heard in the house, had been abruptly
informed by some of the servants, that his daughter had been discovered
without any signs of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly and the
other attendants had pressed forward to assist him.
Calantha now leaving him in their hands, walked in trembling alarm,
through the hall, once more to look upon her unhappy friend. There leaning
against one of the high black marble pillars, pale, as the lifeless
being whom, stretched before him, he still continued to contemplate, she
perceived Glenarvon. His eyes were fixed: in his look there was all the
bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: and in that noble form, the
wreck of all that is great might be traced. “Look not thus,” she said,
“Oh Glenarvon: it pierces my heart to see you thus: grief must not fall
on one like you.” He took her hand, and pressed it to his heart; but he
could not speak. He only pointed to the pale and famished form before
him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt down by its side and wept in
agony, “There was a time,” said he, “when I could have feared to cast
this sin upon my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness and affection,
as I have done. But I have grown callous to all; and now my only, my
dearest friend, I will tear myself away from you for ever. I will not
say God bless you:—I must not bless thee, who have brought thee to so
much misery. Weep not for one unworthy of you:—I am not what you think,
my Calantha. Unblessed myself, I can but give misery to all who approach
me. All that follow after me come to this pass; for my love is death,
and this is the reward of constancy. Poor Alice, but still more unhappy
Calantha, my heart bleeds for you: for myself, I am indifferent.”
Gerald now returned, supported by O’Kelly. The other servants, by his
desire, had retired; and when he approached the spot were his child was
laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave him. He did so; and Mac Allain
advanced towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive a poor old man,” he said in
a faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, my lord: a father’s curse in
the agony of his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh lady Calantha,”
said the old man, turning to her, “lord Glenarvon has been very noble
and good to me; my sons had debts, and he paid all they owed: they had
transgressed and he got them pardoned. You know not what I owe to my
lord; and yet when he told me, this night, as I upbraided the wretch
that had undone my child and was the cause of her dishonor and death,
that it was himself had taken her from my heart; I knelt down and cursed
him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon the agony of a wretched father, a poor old
man who has lived too long.”
Calantha could no longer master her feelings; her sobs, her cries were
bitter and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly away. O’Kelly
insisted upon the necessity of her assuming at least some self command;
and whispering to her, that if she betrayed any violent agitation,
the whole affair must be made public: he promised himself to bring her
word of every minute particular, if she would for a few hours at least
remain tranquil. “I shall see you again,” she said, recovering herself
and approaching Lord Glenarvon before she retired: “You are not going?”
“Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I shall not leave the castle at this
moment; it would look like fear; but after this, my dearest friend, I do
not deceive myself, you cannot, you ought not more to think of me.” “I
share your sorrows.” She said: “you are most miserable; think not then,
that I can be otherwise.” “And can you still feel any interest for one
like me? If I could believe this, even in the bitterness of affliction,
I should still feel comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” “Never.
Oh would to God I could; but it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon,
more than ever, even were it to death. Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed
her hand, in silence; then following her “for your dear sake, I will
live,” he said. “You are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! how from my soul
I honour you.”
Calantha threw herself upon her bed; but her agitation was too great to
allow of her recurring in thought to the past, and fatigue once again
occasioned her taking a few moment’s rest.