Days again passed in fruitless expectation; nights, in unceasing
wakefulness and grief. At length one morning, a letter was put into
Lady Avondale’s hands. It was from Glenarvon. It is impossible to
describe the joy, the transport of that moment; nor how, pressing it
to her lips, she returned thanks to God for receiving, what it was a
crime against that Being thus to value. She glanced her eye over the
superscription; but she durst not open it. She dreaded lest some cause
should be assigned for so long a silence, which might appear less
kind than what she could easily endure. The seal was not his seal;
and the black wax, so constantly his custom to use, was exchanged for
red. The motto upon the seal (for lovers attend to all) was not that
which at all times he made use of when addressing Calantha. It was
a seal she knew too well. A strange foreboding that he was changed,
filled her mind. She was prepared for the worst, as she apprehended.
At last she broke the seal; but she was not prepared for the following
words written by his own hand, and thus addressed to her. Oh! had he
the heart to write them?
Mortanville Priory, November the 9th.
Lady Avondale,
I am no longer your lover; and since you oblige me to confess it,
by this truly unfeminine persecution,—learn, that I am attached to
another; whose name it would of course be dishonourable to mention. I
shall ever remember with gratitude the many instances I have received
of the predilection you have shewn in my favour. I shall ever continue
your friend, if your ladyship will permit me so to style myself; and,
as a first proof of my regard, I offer you this advice, correct your
vanity, which is ridiculous; exert your absurd caprices upon others;
and leave me in peace.
Your most obedient servant,
GLENARVON.
This letter was sealed and directed by Lady Mandeville; but the hand
that wrote it was Lord Glenarvon’s; and therefore it had its full
effect. Yes; it went as it was intended, to the very heart; and the
wound thus given, was as deep as the most cruel enemy could have
desired. The grief of a mother for the loss of her child has been
described, though the hand of the painter fails ever in expressing
the agonies of that moment. The sorrows of a mistress when losing
the lover she adores, has been the theme of every age. Poetry and
painting, have exhausted the expression of her despair, and painted
to the life, that which themselves could conceive—could feel and
understand. Every one can sympathise with their sufferings; and that
which others commiserate, is felt with less agony by ourselves. But
who can sympathize with guilt, or who lament the just reward of crime?
There is a pang, beyond all others—a grief, which happily for human
nature few have been called upon to encounter. It is when an erring
but not hardened heart, worked up to excess of passion, idolized
and flattered into security, madly betraying every sacred trust,
receives all unlooked for, from the hand it adores, the dreadful
punishment which its crime deserves. And, if there can be a degree
still greater of agony, shew to the wretch who sinks beneath the
unexpected blow—shew her, in the person of her only remaining friend
and protector, the husband she has betrayed—the lover of her youth!
Oh shew him unsuspicious, faithful, kind; and do not judge her, if
at such moment, the dream dispelled, frantic violence impelling her
to acts of desperation and madness, lead her rash hand to attempt
her miserable life. Where, but in death can such outcast seek refuge
from shame, remorse and all the bitterness of despair? Where but
in death? Oh, God; it is no coward’s act! The strength of momentary
passion may nerve the arm for so rash a deed; but faint hearts will
sicken at the thought.
Calantha durst not—no, she durst not strike the blow. She seized the
sharp edged knife, and tried its force. It was not pain she feared.
Pain, even to extremity, she already felt. But one single blow—one
instant, and all to be at an end. A trembling horror seized upon her
limbs: the life-blood chilled around her heart. She feared to die.
Pain, even to agony, were better than thus to brave Omnipotence—to
rush forward uncalled into that state of which no certain end is
known: to snatch destiny into our own power, and draw upon ourselves,
in one instant of time, terrors and punishments above the boundless
apprehension even of an evil imagination to conceive.
Calantha’s eye, convulsed and fixed, perceived not the objects which
surrounded her. Her thoughts, quick as the delirious dream of fever,
varied with new and dreadful pictures of calamity. It was the last
struggle of nature.—The spirit within her trembled at approaching
dissolution.—The shock was too great for mortal reason to resist.
Glenarvon—Glenarvon! that form—that look alone appeared to awaken
her recollection, but all else was confusion and pain.
It was a scene of horror. May it for ever be blotted from the
remembrance of the human heart! It claims no sympathy: it was the
dreadful exhibition of a mind which passion had misled, and reason
had ceased to guide. Calantha bowed not before that Being who had seen
fit to punish her in his wrath. She sought nor vengeance, nor future
hope. All was lost for her; and with Glenarvon, every desire in life,
every aspiring energy vanished. Overpowered, annihilated, she called
for mercy and release. She felt that mortal passion domineered over
reason; and, after one desperate struggle for mastery, had conquered
and destroyed her.
Her father watched over and spoke to her. Mrs. Seymour endeavoured to
awaken her to some sense of her situation:—she spoke to her of her
husband. Calantha! when reason had ceased to guide thee, she called
to sooth, to warn thee, but thou could’st not hear. That voice of
conscience, that voice of truth, which in life’s happier day thou
had’st rejected, now spoke in vain; and thy rash steps hurried on to
seek the termination of thy mad career.