Before Glenarvon had met Elinor upon the cliff, he had conducted Lady
Avondale to her father’s house. The first person who came forward
to meet them was Sir Richard. “My dear child,” he said, “what could
have induced you to take in such a serious manner what was meant in
jest? There is your aunt dying in one room; and every one in fits or
mad in different parts of the house. The whole thing will be known
all over the country; and the worst of it is, when people talk, they
never know what they say, and add, and add, till it makes a terrible
story. But come in, do; for if the world speak ill of you, I will
protect you: and as to my Lord Glenarvon there, why it seems after
all he is a very good sort of fellow; and had no mind to have you;
which is what I hinted at before you set out, and might have saved
you a long walk, if you would only have listened to reason. But come
in, do; for all the people are staring at you, as if they had never
seen a woman before. Not but what I must say, such a comical one,
so hot and hasty, I never happened to meet with; which is my fault,
and not yours. Therefore, come in; for I hate people to do any thing
that excites observation. There now; did not I tell you so? Here are
all your relations perfectly crazy: and we shall have a scene in the
great hall, if you don’t make haste and get up stairs before they
meet you.” “Where is she? where is she?” said Mrs. Seymour; and she
wept at beholding her. But Calantha could not weep: her heart seemed
like ice within her: she could neither weep nor speak. “My child,
my Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, “welcome back.” Then turning to
Glenarvon, whose tears flowed fast, “receive my prayers, my thanks
for this,” she exclaimed. “God reward you for restoring my child to
me.”
“Take her,” said Lord Glenarvon, placing Calantha in Mrs. Seymour’s
arms; “and be assured, I give to you what is dearer to me, far
dearer than existence. I do for your sake what I would not for any
other: I give up that which I sought, and won, and would have died to
retain—that which would have made life dear, and which, being taken
from me, leaves me again to a dull blank, and dreary void. Oh! feel
for what I have resisted; and forgive the past.” “I cannot utter my
thanks,” said Mrs. Seymour. “Generous Glenarvon! God reward you for
it, and bless you.” She gave him her hand.
Glenarvon received the applauses of all; and he parted with an
agitation so violent, and apparently so unfeigned, that even the duke,
following, said, “We shall see you, perhaps, to-morrow: we shall ever,
I’m sure, see you with delight.” Calantha alone shared not in these
transports; for the agony of her soul was beyond endurance. Oh, that
she too could have thought Glenarvon sincere and generous; that she
too, in parting from him, could have said, a moment of passion and my
own errors have misled him!—but he has a noble nature. Had he taken
her by the hand, and said—Calantha, we both of us have erred; but
it is time to pause and repent: stay with a husband who adores you:
live to atone for the crime you have committed:—she had done so. But
he reproached her for her weakness; scorned her for the contrition
he said she only affected to feel; and exultingly enquired of her
whether, in the presence of her husband, she should ever regret the
lover she had lost.
When we love, if that which we love is noble and superior, we contract
a resemblance to the object of our passion; but if that to which we
have bound ourselves is base, the contagion spreads swiftly, and
the very soul becomes black with crime. Woe be to those who have
ever loved Glenarvon! Lady Avondale’s heart was hardened; her mind
utterly perverted; and that face of beauty, that voice of softness,
all, alas! that yet could influence her. She was, indeed, insensible
to every other consideration. When, therefore, he spoke of leaving
her—of restoring her to her husband, she heard him not with belief;
but she stood suspended, as if waiting for the explanation such
expressions needed.—It came at length. “Have I acted it to the life?”
he whispered, ere he quitted her. “’Tis but to keep them quiet. Calm
yourself. I will see you again to-morrow.”
That night Calantha slept not; but she watched for the approaching
morrow. It came:—Glenarvon came, as he had promised: he asked
permission to see her one moment alone: he was not denied. He entered,
and chided her for her tears; then pressing her to his bosom, he
inquired if she really thought that he would leave her: “What now—now
that we are united by every tie; that every secret of my soul is
yours? Look at me, thou dear one: look again upon your master, and
never acknowledge another.” “God bless and protect you,” she answered.
“Thanks, sweet, for your prayer; but the kiss I have snatched from
your lips is sweeter far for me. Oh, for another, given thus warm
from the heart! It has entranced—it has made me mad. What fire burns
in your eye? What ecstasy is it thus to call you mine? Oh, tear from
your mind every remaining scruple!—shrink not. The fatal plunge into
guilt is taken: what matter how deep the fall. You weep, love; and
for what? Once you were pure and spotless; and then, indeed, was the
time for tears; but now that fierce passions have betrayed you—now
that every principle is renounced, and every feeling perverted, let
us enjoy the fruits of guilt.
“They talk to us of parting:—we will not part. Though contempt may
brand my name, I will return and tear thee from them when the time
is fit; and you shall drink deep of the draught of joy, though death
and ignominy may be mingled with it. Let them see you again—let the
ties strengthen that I have broken. That which has strayed from the
flock, will become even dearer than before; and when most dear, most
prized: a second time I will return, and a second time break through
every tie, every resolve. Dost shudder, sweet one? To whom are you
united? Remember the oaths—the ring; and however estranged—whatever
you may hear, remember that you belong to me, to me alone. And even,”
continued he, smiling with malicious triumph, “even though the gallant
soldier, the once loved Avondale return, can he find again the heart
he has lost? If he clasp thee thus, ’tis but a shadow he can attempt
to bind. The heart, the soul, are mine. O! Calantha, you know not
what you feel, nor half what you would feel, were I in reality to
leave you. There’s a fire burns in thee, fierce as in myself: you are
bound to me now; fear neither man nor God. I will return and claim
you.”
As he spoke, he placed around her neck a chain of gold, with a locket
of diamonds, containing his hair; saying as he fastened it: “Remember
the ring: this, too, is a marriage bond between us;” and, kneeling
solemnly, “I call your God,” said he, “I call him now to witness,
while that I breathe, I will consider you as my wife, my mistress;
the friend of my best affections. Never, Calantha, will I abandon,
or forget thee:—never, by Heaven! shalt thou regret thy attachment
or my own.”
“Glenarvon,” said Calantha, and she was much agitated, “I have no
will but yours; but I am not so lost as to wish, or to expect you to
remain faithful to one you must no longer see:—only, when you marry—”
“May the wrath of Heaven blast me,” interrupted he, “if ever I call
any woman mine but you, my adored, my sweetest friend. I will be
faithful; but you—you must return to Avondale: and shall he teach you
to forget me? No, Calantha, never shall you forget the lessons I have
given: my triumph is secure. Think of me when I am away: dream of me
in the night, as that dear cheek slumbers upon its pillow; and, when
you wake, fancy yourself in Glenarvon’s arms. Ours has been but a
short-tried friendship,” he said; “but the pupils of Glenarvon never
can forget their master. Better they had lived for years in folly and
vice with thousands of common lovers, than one hour in the presence
of such as I am. Do you repent, love? It is impossible. Look back to
the time that is gone; count over the hours of solitude and social
life; bear in your memory every picture of fancied bliss, and tell
me truly if they can be compared to the transport, the ecstasy of
being loved.
“Oh! there is Heaven in the language of adoration; and one hour thus
snatched from eternity is cheaply purchased by an age of woe. My love,
my soul, look not thus. Now is the season of youth. Whilst fresh and
balmy as the rose in summer, dead to remorse, and burning with hidden
fires, dash all fear and all repentance from you; leave repinings to
the weak and the old, and taste the consolation love alone can offer.
What can heal its injuries? What remove its regrets? What shews you
its vanity and illusion but itself? This hour we enjoy its transports,
and to-morrow, sweet, we must live upon its remembrance.
“Farewell, beloved. Upon thy burning lips receive a parting kiss;
and never let or father, or husband, take it thence. Dissemble well,
however; for they say the conquering hero returns—Avondale. Oh! if
thou shouldst—but it is impossible—I feel that you dare not forget
me. We must appear to give way: we have been too unguarded: we have
betrayed ourselves: but, my life, my love is yours. Be true to me.
You need not have one doubt of me: I never, never will forsake you.
Heed not what I say to others: I do it but to keep all tranquil, and
to quiet suspicion. Trust all to one who has never deceived thee. I
might have assumed a character to you more worthy, more captivating.
But have you not read the black secrets of my heart—aye, read, and
shuddered, and yet forgiven me?”