The repetition of a lover’s promises is perhaps as irksome to those
who may coldly peruse them, as the remembrance is delightful to those
who have known the rapture of receiving them. I cannot, however,
think that to describe them is either erroneous or unprofitable. It
may indeed be held immoral to exhibit, in glowing language, scenes
which ought never to have been at all; but when every day, and every
hour of the day—at all times, and in all places, and in all countries
alike, man is gaining possession of his victim by similar arts, to
paint the portrait to the life, to display his base intentions, and
their mournful consequences, is to hold out a warning and admonition
to innocence and virtue: this cannot be wrong. All deceive themselves.
At this very instant of time, what thousands of beguiled and credulous
beings are saying to themselves in the pride of their hearts, “I am
not like this Calantha,” or, “thank God, the idol of my fancy is not
a Glenarvon.” They deem themselves virtuous, because they are yet
only upon the verge of ruin: they think themselves secure, because
they know not yet the heart of him who would mislead them. But the
hour of trial is at hand; and the smile of scorn may soon give place
to the bitter tear of remorse.
“Many can deceive,” said Glenarvon, mournfully gazing on Calantha
whilst she wept; “but is your lover like the common herd? Oh! we
have loved, Calantha, better than they know how: we have dared the
utmost: your mind and mine must not even be compared with theirs. Let
the vulgar dissemble and fear—let them talk idly in the unmeaning
jargon they admire: they never felt what we have felt; they never
dared what we have done: to win, and to betray, is with them an air—a
fancy: and fit is the delight for the beings who can enjoy it. Such
as these, a smile or a frown may gain or lose in a moment. But tell
me, Calantha, have we felt nothing more? I who could command you, am
your slave: every tear you shed is answered not by my eyes alone, but
in my heart of hearts; and is there that on earth I would not, will
not sacrifice for you?
“I know they will wound you, and frown on you because of me; but if
once I shew myself again, the rabble must shrink at last: they dare
not stand before Glenarvon. Heaven, or hell, I care not which, have
cast a ray so bright around my brow, that not all the perfidy of a
heart as lost as mine, of a heart loaded, as you know too well, with
crimes man shudders even to imagine—not all the envy and malice of
those whom my contempt has stung, can lower me to their level. And
you, Calantha, do you think you will ever learn to hate me, even were
I to leave, and to betray you? Poor blighted flower, which I have
cherished in my bosom, when scorned and trampled on, because you have
done what they had gladly done if I had so but willed it! Were I to
subject you to the racking trial of frantic jealousy, and should you
ever be driven by fury and vengeance to betray me, you would but harm
yourself. To thy last wretched hour, thou wouldst pine in unavailing
recollection and regret; as Clytie, though bound and fettered to the
earth, still fixes her uplifted eyes upon her own sun, who passes
over, regardless in his course, nor deigns to cast a look below.”
It was at a late hour that night, when after again receiving the thanks
of a whole family—when after hearing himself called the preserver of
the wretch who scarcely dared to encounter his eyes, Lord Glenarvon
took a last and faltering leave of Calantha. Twice he returned and
paused: he knew not how to say farewell: it seemed as if his lips
trembled beneath the meaning of that fearful word—as if he durst not
utter a knell to so much love—a death to every long cherished hope.
At length, in a slow and solemn voice, “Farewell, Calantha,” he said.
“God forgive us both, and bless you.” Lady Avondale for one instant
ventured to look upon him: it was but to impress upon her memory every
feature, every lineament, and trace of that image, which had reigned
so powerfully over her heart. Had thousands been present, she had
seen but that one:—had every danger menaced him, he had not moved.
Thus in the agony of regret they parted; but that regret was shared;
and as he glanced his eye for the last time on her, he pointed to
the chain which he wore with her resemblance near his heart; and he
bade her take comfort in the thought that absence could never tear
that image from him.