Transcriber’s Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
The following are possible misspellings:
Annabel/Anabel
arbutes
arouzed
Costolly/Costoly
encrease
intrusted
Glanaa/Glenaa
hurah
inforce
Kendall/Kendal
traitress
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
GLENARVON.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
1816.
London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
13, Poland Street.
Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme
Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.
CHAPTER LXXII.
Love, though, when guilty, the parent of every crime, springs forth
in the noblest hearts, and dwells ever with the generous and the
high-minded. The flame that is kindled by Heaven burns brightly and
steadily to the last, its object great and superior, sustained by
principle, and incapable of change. But, when the flame is unsupported
by these pure feelings, it rages and consumes us, burns up and destroys
every noble hope, perverts the mind, and fills with craft and falsehood
every avenue to the heart. Then that which was a paradise, becomes a
hell; and the victim of its power, a maniac and a fiend. They know not
the force of passion, who have not felt it—they know not the agony
of guilt, who have not plunged into its burning gulf, and trembled
there. O! when the rigorous and the just turn with abhorrence from
the fearful sight—when, like the pharisee, in the pride of their
unpolluted hearts, they bless their God that they are not as this
sinner—let them beware; for the hour of trial may come to all; and
that alone is the test of superior strength. When man, reposing upon
himself, disdains the humility of acknowledging his offences and his
weakness before his Creator, on the sudden that angry God sees fit to
punish him in his wrath, and he who has appeared invulnerable till that
hour, falls prostrate at once before the blow; perhaps then, for the
first time, he relents; and, whilst he sinks himself, feels for the
sinner whom, in the pride and presumption of his happier day, he had
mocked at and despised. There are trials, which human frailty cannot
resist—there are passions implanted in the heart’s core, which reason
cannot subdue; and God himself compassionates, when a fellow-creature
refuses to extend to us his mercy or forgiveness.
Fallen, miserable Calantha! where now are the promises of thy youth—the
bright prospects of thy happiness? Where is that unclouded brow—that
joyous look of innocence which once bespoke a heart at ease? Is it the
same, who, with an air of fixed and sullen despondency, flying from a
father’s house, from a husband’s protection, for one moment resolved
to seek the lover whom she adored, and follow him, regardless of every
other tie? Even in that hour of passion and of guilt, the remembrance
of her husband, of her sacred promise to her aunt, and of that gentle
supplicating look with which it was received, recurred. A moment’s
reflection changed the rash resolve; and hastening forward, she knew
not where—she cared not to what fate—she found herself after a long
and weary walk at the vicar’s house, near Kelladon—a safe asylum and
retreat.
The boat which had conveyed her from the shore returned; and a few
hours after brought Glenarvon to the other side of the rocks, known
in the country by the name of the Wizzard’s Glen, and ofttimes the
scene of tumult and rebellious meeting. Calantha little expected to
see him. He met her towards evening, as weary and trembling she stood,
uncertain where to fly, or what to do. The moment of meeting was
terrible to both; but that which followed was more agonizing still.
A servant of her father’s had discovered her after a long search. He
informed her of her aunt’s illness and terror. He humbly, but firmly,
urged her instantly to return.
Calantha had resolved never to do so; but, lost as she was, the voice
of her aunt still had power to reach her heart.—“Is she very ill?”
“Very dangerously ill,” said the man; and without a moments delay,
she immediately consented to return. She resolved to part from him
she adored; and Glenarvon generously agreed to restore her to her
aunt, whose sufferings had affected his heart—whose prayers had moved
him, as he said, to the greatest sacrifice he ever was called upon to
make. Yet still he upbraided her for her flight, and affirmed, that
had she but confided herself in him, she had long before this have
been far away from scenes so terrible to witness, and been spared a
state of suspense so barbarous to endure. Whilst he spoke, he gazed
upon her with much sadness.
“I will leave you,” he said; “but the time may come when you will
repent, and call in vain for me. They may tear my heart from out my
breast—they may tear thee from me, if it is their mad desire. I shall
or die, or recover, or forget thee. But oh! miserable victim—what
shall become of thee? Do they hope their morality will unteach the
lessons I have given; or pluck my image from that heart? Thou art
mine, wedded to me, sold to me; and no after-time can undo for thee,
what I have done. Go; for I can relinquish thee. But have they taught
thee, what it is to part from him you love? never again to hear his
voice—never again to meet those eyes, whose every turn and glance
you have learned to read and understand?”
Calantha could not answer. “You will write kindly and constantly to
me,” at length she said. “May God destroy me in his vengeance,” cried
Glenarvon eagerly, “if, though absent, I do not daily, nay, hourly
think of thee, write to thee, live for thee! Fear not, thou loved
one. There was a time when inconstancy had been a venial error—when
insecure of thy affections, and yet innocent, to fly thee had been a
duty, to save thee had been an angel’s act of mercy and of virtue;—but
now when thou art mine; when, sacrificing the feelings of thy heart
for others, thou dost leave me—can you believe that I would add to
your grief and increase my own. Can you believe him you love so base
as this? Oh! yes, Calantha, I have acted the part of such a villain
to your lost friend, that even you mistrust me.” She re-assured him:
“I have given my very soul to you, O! Glenarvon. I believe in you,
as I once did in Heaven. I had rather doubt myself and every thing
than you.”
She now expressed an anxiety to return and see her aunt. “Yet,
Calantha, it may perhaps be said that you have fled to me. The stain
then is indelible. Think of it, my beloved; and think, if I myself
conduct you back, how the malevolent, who are ever taunting you, will
say that I wished not to retain you. They know me not; they guess
not what I feel; and the world, ever apt to judge by circumstances
imperfectly related, will imagine”.... “At such a moment,” said
Calantha, impatiently, “it is of little importance what is thought.
When the heart suffers keenly, not all the sayings of others are of
weight. Let them think the worst, and utter what they think. When
we fall, as I have done, we are far beyond their power: the venomed
shaft of malice cannot wound; for the blow under which we sink is
alone heeded. I feel now but this, that I am going to part from you.”
Glenarvon looked at her, and the tears filled his eyes. “Thy love,”
he said, “was the last light of Heaven, that beamed upon my weary
pilgrimage: thy presence recalled me from error: thy soft voice
stilled every furious passion. It is all past now—I care not what
becomes of me.” As he spoke, they approached the boat, and entering
it, sailed with a gentle breeze across the bay. Not a wave rippled
over the sea—not a cloud obscured the brightness of the setting sun.
“How tranquil and lovely is the evening!” said Glenarvon, as the bark
floated upon the smooth surface. “It is very calm now,” she replied,
as she observed the serenity of his countenance. “But, ah! who knows
how soon the dreadful storms may arise, and tear us to destruction.”
The boat now touched the shore, where a crowd of spectators were
assembled—some watching from the top of the high cliff, and others idly
gazing upon the sea. The figure of Elinor distinctly appeared amongst
the former, as bending forward, she eagerly watched for Glenarvon.
Her hat and plume distinguished her from the crowd; and the harp, her
constant companion, sounded at intervals on the breeze, in long and
melancholy cadences. Her dark wild eye fixed itself upon him as he
approached. “It is my false lover,” she said, and shrieked. “Hasten,
dearest Calantha,” he cried, “from this spot, where we are so much
observed. That wretched girl may, perhaps, follow us. Hasten; for see
with what rapidity she advances.” “Let her come,” replied Calantha. “I
am too miserable myself to turn from those that are unhappy.” Elinor
approached: she gazed on them as they passed: she strained her eyes
to catch one last glimpse of Glenarvon as he turned the path.
Many of his friends, retainers and followers were near. He bowed to
all with gracious courtesy; but upon Elinor he never cast his eyes.
“He’s gone!” she cried, shouting loudly, and addressing herself to
her lawless associates, in the language they admired. “He is gone;
and peace be with him; for he is the leader of the brave.” They now
passed on in silence to the castle; but Elinor, returning to her
harp, struck the chords with enthusiasm, whilst the caverns of the
mountains re-echoed to the strain. The crowd who had followed loudly
applauded, joining in the chorus to the well-known sound of
“Erin m’avourneen—Erin go brah.”