And now the glowing picture of guilt is at an end; the sword of
justice hangs over the head of a devoted criminal; and the tortures of
remorse are alone left me to describe. But no: remorse came not yet:
absence but drew Calantha nearer to the object of her attachment. They
never love so well, who have never been estranged. Who is there that
in absence clings not with increasing fondness to the object of its
idolatry, watches not every post, and trembling with alarm, anxiety
and suspense, reads not again and again every line that the hand of
love has traced? Is there a fault that is not pardoned in absence? Is
there a doubt that is not harboured and believed, however agonizing?
Yet, though believed, is it not at once forgiven? Every feeling but
one is extinct in absence; every idea but one image is banished as
profane. Lady Avondale had sacrificed herself and Glenarvon, as she
then thought, for others; but she could not bring herself to endure
the pang she had voluntarily inflicted.
She lived therefore but upon the letters she daily received from
him; for those letters were filled with lamentations for her loss,
and with the hope of a speedy return. Calantha felt no horror at her
conduct. She deceived herself: conscience itself had ceased to reprove
a heart so absorbed, so lost in the labyrinth of guilt. Lord Avondale
wrote to her but seldom: she heard however with uneasiness that his
present situation was one that exposed him to much danger; and after
a skirmish with the rebels, when she was informed that he was safe,
she knelt down, and said, “Thank God for it!” as if he had still been
dear. His letters, however, were repulsive and cold. Glenarvon’s, on
the other hand, breathed the life and soul of love.
In one of these letters, Glenarvon informed her, that he was going to
England, to meet at Mortanville Priory several of his friends. Lady
Mandeville, Lady Augusta Selwyn, and Lady Trelawney, were to be of
the party. “I care not,” he said, “who may be there. This I know too
well, that my Calantha will not.” He spoke of Lady Mowbrey and Lady
Elizabeth with praise. “Oh! if your Avondale be like his sister, whom
I have met with since we parted, what indeed have you not sacrificed
for me?” He confided to her, that Lady Mandeville had entreated him
to visit her in London: “But what delight can I find in her society?”
he said: “it will only remind me of one I have lost.”
His letter, after his arrival in England, ended thus: “I will bear this
separation as long as I can, my Calantha; but my health is consumed
by my regret; and, whatever you may do, I live alone—entirely alone.
We may be alone in the midst of crowds; and if indifference, nay,
almost dislike to others, is a proof of attachment to you, you will
be secure and satisfied. I had a stormy passage from Ireland. Is it
ominous of future trouble? Vain is this separation.
“I will bear with it for a short period; but in the spring, when the
soft winds prepare to waft us, fly to me; and we will traverse the dark
blue seas, secure, through a thousand storms, in each others devotion.
Were you ever at sea? How does the roar of the mighty winds, and the
rushing of waters, accord with you—the whistling of the breeze, the
sparkling of the waves by night, and the rippling of the foam against
the sides of that single plank which divides you from eternity? Fear
you, Calantha? Oh, not if your lover were by your side, your head
reclining on his bosom, your heart freed from every other tie, and
linked alone by the dearest and the tenderest to his fate! Can you
fancy yourself there, about the middle watch? How many knots does
she make? How often have they heaved the log? Does she sail with the
speed of thought, when that thought is dictated by love? Perhaps it
is a calm. Heed it not: towards morn it will freshen: a breeze will
spring up; and by to-morrow even, we shall be at anchor. Wilt thou
sail? ‘They that go down into the great deep; they see the wonders
of the Lord.’ That thou may’st see as few as possible of his terrific
wonders, is, my beloved, the prayer of him who liveth alone for thee!
“The prettiest and most perilous navigation for large ships is
the Archipelago. There we will go; and there thou shalt see the
brightest of moons, shining over the headlands of green Asia, or the
isles, upon the bluest of all waves—the most beautiful, but the most
treacherous. Oh, Calantha! what ecstasy were it to sail together, or
to travel in those pleasant lands I have often described to you—freed
from the gloom and the forebodings this heavy, noisome atmosphere
engenders!—Dearest! I write folly and nonsense:—do I not? But even
this, is it not a proof of love?”
After his arrival at Mortanville Priory, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha
a minute account of every one there. He seemed to detail to her
his inmost thoughts. He thus expressed himself concerning Miss
Monmouth:—“Do you remember how often we have talked together of Miss
Monmouth? You will hear, perhaps, that I have seen much of her of
late. Remember she is thy relative; but, oh! how unlike my own, my
beloved Calantha! Yet she pleases me well enough. They will, perhaps,
tell you that I have shewn her some little attention. Possibly this
is true; but, God be my witness, I never for one moment even have
thought seriously about her.” Lady Trelawney, in writing to her sister,
thought rather differently. It was thus that she expressed herself
upon that subject. “However strange you may think it,” she said in
her letter to Sophia, “Lord Glenarvon has made a proposal of marriage
to Miss Monmouth. I do not believe what you tell me of his continuing
to write to Calantha. If he does, it is only by way of keeping her
quiet; for I assure you he is most serious in his intentions. Miss
Monmouth admires, indeed I think loves him; yet she has not accepted
his offer. Want of knowledge of his character, and some fear of his
principles, have made her for the present decline it. But their newly
made friendship is to continue; and any one may see how it will end.
In the mean time, Lord Glenarvon has already consoled himself for
her refusal—but I will explain all this when we meet.
“Remember to say nothing of this to Calantha, unless she hears of it
from others; and advise her not to write so often. It is most absurd,
believe me. Nothing, I think, can be more wanting in dignity, than
a woman’s continuing to persecute a man who is evidently tired of
her. He ever avoids all conversation on this topic; but with me, in
private, I have heard a great deal, which makes me think extremely
well of him. You know how violent Calantha is in all things:—it
seems, in the present instance, that her love is of so mad and absurd
a nature, that it is all he can do to prevent her coming after him.
Such things, too, as she has told him! A woman must have a depraved
mind, even to name such subjects.
“Now, I know you will disbelieve all this; but at once to silence you.
I have seen some passages of her letters; and more forward and guilty
professions none ever assuredly ventured to make. Her gifts too!—he
is quite loaded with them; and while, as he laughingly observed, one
little remembrance from a friend is dear, to be almost bought thus is
unbecoming, both in him to receive, and herself to offer. As to Lord
Glenarvon, I like him more than ever. He has, indeed, the errors of
youth; but his mind is superior, and his heart full of sensibility
and feeling.”