When Lady Avondale awoke from her slumbers she found the whole castle in
a state of confusion. Lady Margaret had twice sent for her. Every one was
occupied with this extraordinary event. Her name, and Lord Glenarvon’s
were mentioned together, and conjectures, concerning the whole scene,
were made by every individual.
At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, the body of Alice was conveyed
to his own house, near the Garden Cottage. He wished no one to be informed
of the particulars of her melancholy fate. He came, however, a few
days after her removal, to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but mediately
admitted him. They talked together upon all that had occurred. He gave
her a letter, and a broach, which had been found upon the body. It was
addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was also a lock of hair, which seemed,
from the fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. The letter
was a mournful congratulation on his supposed marriage with a lady in
England, written at some former period; it wished him every happiness,
and contained no one reproach. The broach consisted of a heart’s ease,
which she entreated him sometimes to wear in remembrance of one, who had
loved him truly. “Heart’s ease to you—_mais triste pensée pour moi_,”
was engraved upon it. “You must yourself deliver these,” said Mac Allain
looking wistfully at Calantha. She promised to do so.
Mac Allain then drew forth a larger packet which was addressed to himself.
“I have not yet read it,” he said, “I am not able to see for my tears;
but it is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and when I have ended
it, I will give it to you, my dear lady, and to any other whom you may
wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of gratitude
and affection which you profess, and have shewn our family, do not let
any one read this but myself:—do not betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels
your sufferings: he more than shares them. For my sake I ask you this.
Keep this transaction secret; and, whatever may be suspected, let none
know the truth.—Say: may I ask it?”
Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. He wept in bitter anguish. “The
destroyer of my child,” he said, “will lead my benefactress into misery.
Ah! my dear young lady, how my heart bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she
turned away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” she said. “You may command;
but the news of my child’s death is spread: many are talking of it
already: I cannot keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord Glenarvon’s name
appear.” Mac Allain promised to do all in his power to silence every
rumour; and, with the help of O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. The
story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan first had carried her with him to
England, where she had fallen into poverty and vice. No further enquiry
was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself confided to many, the secret which
Calantha was so eager to conceal.
The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may be omitted by those who wish not
to peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to read it when Calantha had ended
it. He also took the broach, and pressing it to his lips, appeared very
deeply affected. After this, for a short time he absented himself from
the castle. The following pages, written by Alice, were addressed to her
only surviving parent. No comment is made on them; no apology offered
for their insertion. If passion has once subdued the power of reason,
the misery and example of others never avails, even were we certain of
a similar fate. If every calamity we may perhaps deserve, were placed
in view before us, we should not pause—we should not avert our steps.
To love, in defiance of virtue is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the
safety of its victims, were a generous but useless effort of unavailable
interference. It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s fury—far beyond
human aid to quell. Calantha read, however, the history of her friend,
and wept her fate.
ALICE’S NARRATIVE.
“My dear and honoured father,
“To you I venture to address this short history of my unhappy life, and if
sufferings and pain can in part atone for my misconduct, I surely shall
be forgiven by you; but never, while existence, however miserable, is
prolonged, never shall I forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the rumour of
my disgrace has reached you, and added still severer pangs to those you
before endured. But oh! my father, I have, in part, expiated my offences.
Long and severe sorrows have followed me, since I left your roof, and
none more heart rending—oh! none to compare with the agony of being
abandoned by him, for whom I left so much. You remember, my dear father,
that, during the last year, which I passed at the castle, the attention
which Mr. Buchanan had paid me, was so marked, that it occasioned the
most serious apprehensions in Lady Margaret, on his account. Alas! I
concealed from every one, the true cause of my encreasing melancholy; and
felt happy that the suspicions of my friends and protectors were thus
unintentionally misled. I parted with Linden, nor told him my secret.
I suffered the severest menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; for I
knew myself guilty, though not of the crime with which I was charged.
At Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means to make my escape, or rather,
the mad attachment of one far above me, removed every obstacle, which
opposed his wishes and my own.
“But it is time more particularly to acquaint you, my dear father, by what
accident I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to whom my fate was linked—whose
attachment once made me blessed—whose inconstancy has deprived me of
every earthly hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained leave to pass
the day with you, that my brother, Garlace, took me with him in his boat,
down the river Allan, and Roy and yourself were talking eagerly of the
late affray which had taken place in our village. I then pointed out to
you the ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you the history of its
unhappy owners. My father, that evening, when yourself and Roy were gone
on shore, my brother Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me down the
current with the wind: and as we passed near the banks from behind the
rocks, we heard soft low notes, such as they say spirits sing over the
dead; and as we turned by the winding shore, we soon perceived a youth
who was throwing pebbles into the stream, and ever whilst he threw them,
he continued singing in that soft, sweet manner I have said. He spoke
with us, and the melancholy sound of his voice, attracted us towards him.
We landed close by the place near which he stood. He accompanied us to
the front of the castle; but then entreating us to excuse his proceeding
further, he retired; nor told us who he was. From that day, I met him
in secret. Oh! that I had died before I had met with one so young, so
beautiful, but yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save him: my feeble
help could not reclaim him: it was like one who clasped a drowning man,
and fell with him in the struggle: he had cast sin and misery upon his
soul. Never will I soil these pages with the record of what he uttered;
his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; and soon, most soon shall
I perish with them....”
Calantha paused in the narrative; she gasped for breath; and wiping away
the tears which struggled in her eyes: “If he treated my friend with
unkindness,” she said, “dear as he has hitherto been to me, I will never
behold him more.” She then proceeded.
“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I am sick at heart. The rest of my
story is but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles of guilty love,
is but adding to the crime already committed. I accuse him of no arts
to allure: he did but follow the impulse of his feelings: he sought to
save—he would have spared me: but he had not strength. O my father, you
know Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, all that the most grateful
enthusiasm could feel; and for the sake of the son whom he restored to
you, you must forgive him the ruin of an ungrateful child, who rushed
forward herself to meet it. Unused to disguise my sentiments, I did
not attempt even to conceal them from him; and when he told me I was
dear, I too soon shewed him, how much more so he was to me. For when the
moment of parting forever came, when I saw my Lord, as I thought, for
the last time, you must not judge me—you cannot even in fancy imagine,
all I at that hour endured—I left my country, my home—I gave up every
hope on earth or heaven for him. Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have
suffered cruelly; and you, my father, when you read these pages, bless
me, forgive me. Turn not from me, for you know not the struggles of my
heart—you can never know what I have endured.”
Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; and paused again. She paced
to and fro within her chamber, in strong agitation of mind. She then
eagerly returned to peruse the few remaining pages, written by her
miserable, her infatuated friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. “The
God of Heaven will not, does not condemn her. Oh she was spotless as
innocence compared with me.”
“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted
with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him;
nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can
fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the
only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom.
Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded
by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I
will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s
mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the
three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother
of a child, and Clare, my little son, was dear to his father. But after
his birth, he forsook me.
“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends,
when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had
resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state
of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for
permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if
unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still
he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than
the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his
friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go
to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me
a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not.
Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,” I
said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die
upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a
fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are
going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep
in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his
arms....
“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a
misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous
illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that
my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had
provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to
follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates
of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s
whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helpless outcast, in my
own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well
known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to
enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt
to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy
hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My
letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every
thing, every thing was refused me....
“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my
Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by
ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains!
by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you
do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I
heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp of agony, I clasped the boy
to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have
the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my
power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s
pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for
support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my
shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of
his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see
him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have
I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk
me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father
cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more....
* * * * *
“Linden had heard of my disgrace and misery; he had written to me, but
he knew not where I was....
“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of
a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend
of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised
to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before
you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the
malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon
hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I
alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear
father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St.
Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little
thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his
own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare
too; but I never saw Glenarvon....
“From my miserable Lodging, Cork,
Thursday Night.
“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking
heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us
back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over:
I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I
have lost every thing.
“Sunday.
“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet
music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and
soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me;
but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes,
he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a
bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if
I see him—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I
am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish
to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd....
“Tuesday Night, Belfont.
“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have
seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I
can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter
bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They
tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady
Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he
looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon
me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form,
he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it
could not be:—he did not know me; and I will see him again. If he will
but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child
still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your
heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write.
They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no
other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin,
I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale.
They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she
will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall
wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see
him again....”
And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received
from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected
kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and she was buried in the
church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave,
and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that
now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and
wild-goats, might not destroy it.
“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills
me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from
it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence
was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent
for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said
Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is
past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with
contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need
you thus confess them? and whatever your feelings, wherefore betray them
to the senseless crowd?
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as
yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all;
but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal
the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to
the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint
upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the
contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know,
that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you
to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with
puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of
your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew
your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by the very exhibition of
your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love
your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply
rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You
know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied.
Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire
interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the
earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at
himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue.
The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and
bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware!
and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is,
what he has done. He is....”
“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened,
and he entered. He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed,
durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken
of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs.
Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not
shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful
countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she
observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the
air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him;
and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully
enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a
moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if
ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured
I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence
were prolonged, to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s
uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me.
“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least
in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud.
“Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,”
said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence,
frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own
utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly.
“She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s
heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply
interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized
her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating
her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You
shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, “She goes
with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are
married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady
Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.”
“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I
do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the
whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power
I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued
with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach
her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never
was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to
you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity;
for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a protecting tone, “are you not
vain?” “This Glenarvon has been the lover of many hundreds; to be thus
preferred is flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what consists
your superiority? You are not as fair as these; you are not perhaps as
chaste; but you are loved more because your ruin will make the misery
of a whole family, and your disgrace will cast a shade upon the only
man whom Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior to himself—superior
both in mind and person. This, child, is your potent charm—your sole
claim to his admiration. Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, point
out to him an object more worth the trouble and pain of rendering more
miserable and he will immediately abandon you.”
Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon Lady Margaret. The disdain of that
glance silenced her, she even came forward with a view to conciliate: and
affecting an air of playful humility—“I spoke but from mere jealousy,”
she said. “What woman of my age could bear to see another so praised, so
worshipped in her presence. It is as if the future heir of his kingdom
were extolled in presence of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, Glenarvon.
I know, I see you love her.” “By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried
exultingly, “with what furious rage the little tygress gazes on you. She
will harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, “if I do not carry her
from your presence. Come then Calantha: _we_ shall meet again,” he said,
turning back and pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s apartment. The
tone of his voice, and his look, as he said this were peculiar: nor did
he for some moments regain his composure.
Lady Margaret spoke a few words to Calantha that evening. “I am in the
power of this man,” she said, “and you soon will be. He is cold, hard
and cruel. Do any thing: but, if you have one regard for yourself, go
not with him.” “I know his history, his errors,” said Calantha; “but he
feels deeply.” “You know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a look of scornful
superiority, “as he wishes you to believe him. He even may exaggerate,
were that possible, his crimes, the more to interest and surprise. You
know him, Calantha, as one infatuated and madly in love can imagine the
idol of its devotion. But there will come a time when you will draw his
character with darker shades, and taking from it all the romance and
mystery of guilt, see him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, which the
light of genius, self-love and passion, have warmed at intervals; but
which, in all the detail of every-day life, sinks into hypocrisy and
baseness. Crimes have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, even by
noble minds, but Glenarvon is little, contemptible and mean. He unites
the malice and petty vices of a woman, to the perfidy and villany of a
man. You do not know him as I do.”
“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignation burning in her bosom, “we
never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange one word with each other.
I renounce you entirely; and think you all that you have dared to say
against my loved, my adored Glenarvon.”
Lady Margaret sought Calantha before she retired for the night, and
laughed at her for her conduct. “Your rage, your absurdity but excite
my contempt. Calantha, how puerile this violence appears to me; above
all, how useless. Now from the earliest day of my remembrance can any
one say of me that they beheld me forgetful of my own dignity from the
violence of my passions. Yet I feel, think you not, and have made others
feel. Your childish petulance but operates against yourself. What are
threats, blows and mighty words from a woman. When I am offended, I
smile; and when I stab deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven.
Your friends talk of you with kindness or unkindness as it suits their
fancy: some love; some pity, but none fear Calantha. Your very servants,
though you boast of their attachment, despise and laugh at you. Your
husband caresses you as a mistress, but of your conduct he takes not
even heed. What is the affection of the crowd? what the love of man?
make yourself feared! Then, if you are not esteemed, at least you are
outwardly honoured, and that reserve, that self-controul, which you
never sought even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in alarm. Many hate
me; but who dares even name me without respect. Yourself, Calantha,
even at this moment, are ready to fall upon my bosom and weep, because
I have offended you. Come child—your hand. I fain would save you, but
you must hear much that pains you, before I can hope even to succeed.
Only remember: ‘_si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous mangera_.’” She
smiled as she said this, and Calantha, half offended, gave her the hand
for which she solicited.