Nothing is more mistaken than to suppose that unkindness and severity
are the means of reclaiming an offender. There is no moment in which
we are more insensible to our own errors than when we smart under
apparent injustice. Calantha saw Glenarvon triumphant, and herself
deserted. The world, it is true, still befriended her; but her nearest
relatives and friends supported him. Taunted with her errors, betrayed,
scorned, and trampled upon, the high spirit of her character arose in
proportion as every hope was cut off. She became violent, overbearing,
untractable even to her attendants, demanding a more than ordinary
degree of respect, from the suspicion that it might no longer be
paid. Every error of her life was now canvassed, and brought forth
against her. Follies and absurdities long forgotten, were produced
to view, to aggravate her present disgrace; and the severity which
an offended world forbore to shew, Sophia, Frances, the Princess of
Madagascar, Lady Mandeville, and Lord Glenarvon, were eager to evince.
But, even at this hour, Calantha had reason to acknowledge the kindness
and generosity of some; and the poor remembered her in their prayers.
Those whom she had once protected, flew forward to support her; and
even strangers addressed her with looks, if not words of consolation.
It was not the gay, the professing, the vain that shewed compassion in
a moment of need—it was not the imprudent and vicious whom Calantha
had stood firm by and defended: these were the first to desert her.
But it was the good, the pious, the benevolent, who came to her, and
even courted an acquaintance they once had shunned; for their hope
was now to reclaim.
Humbled, not yet sufficiently, but miserable, her fair name blasted,
the jest of fools, the theme of triumphant malice, Calantha still gave
vent to every furious passion, and openly rebelled against those who
had abandoned her. She refused to see any one, to hear any admonitions,
and, sickening at every contradiction to her authority, insisted
upon doing things the most ill judged and unreasonable, to shew her
power, or her indignation. Struck with horror at her conduct, every
one now wrote to inform Lord Avondale of the absolute necessity of his
parting from her. Hints were not only given, but facts were held up
to view, and a life of folly, concluding in crime, was painted with
every aggravation. Calantha knew not at this time the eager zeal that
some had shewn, to hurl just vengeance upon a self-devoted victim.
She was informed therefore of Lord Avondale’s expected return, and
prepared to receive him with hardened and desperate indifference.
She feared not pain, nor death: the harshest words occasioned her
no humiliation: the scorn, the abhorrence of companions and friends,
excited no other sentiment in her mind than disgust. Menaced by every
one, she still forbore to yield, and boldly imploring if she were
guilty, to be tried by the laws of her country—laws, which though
she had transgressed, she revered, and would submit to, she defied
the insolence, and malice of private interference.
From this state, Calantha was at length aroused by the return of Lord
Avondale. It has been said, that the severest pang to one not wholly
hardened, is the unsuspicious confidence of the friend whom we have
betrayed, the look of radiant health and joy which we never more
must share, that eye of unclouded virtue, that smile of a heart at
rest, and, worse than all perhaps, the soft confiding words and fond
caresses offered after long absence. Cruel is such suffering. Such
a pang Calantha had already once endured, when last she had parted
from her lord; and for such meeting she was again prepared. She had
been ill, and no one had read the secret of her soul. She had been
lonely, and no one comforted her in her hours of solitude: she had
once loved Lord Avondale, but absence and neglect had entirely changed
her. She prepared therefore for the interview with cold indifference,
and her pride disdained to crave his forgiveness, or to acknowledge
itself undeserving in his presence. “He is no longer my husband,” she
repeated daily to herself. “My heart and his are at variance—severed
by inclination, though unhappily for both united by circumstances.
Let him send me from him: I am desperate and care not.”
None sufficiently consider, when they describe the hateful picture of
crime, how every step taken in its mazy road, perverts, and petrifies
the feeling. Calantha, in long retrospect over her former life, thought
only of the neglect and severity of him she had abandoned. She dwelt
with pleasure upon the remembrance of every momentary act of violence,
and thought of his gaiety and merriment, as of a sure testimony that
he was not injured by her ill conduct. “He left me first,” she said.
“He loves me not; he is happy; I alone suffer.” And the consolation
she derived from such reflections steeled her against every kindlier
sentiment.
Lord Avondale returned. There was no look of joy in his countenance—no
radiant heartfelt smile which bounding spirits and youthful ardour
once had raised. His hollow eye betokened deep anxiety; his wasted
form, the suffering he had endured. Oh, can it be said that the
greatest pang to a heart, not yet entirely hardened, is unsuspicious
confidence? Oh, can the momentary selfish pang a cold dissembling
hypocrite may feel, be compared to the unutterable agony of such a
meeting? Conscience itself must shrink beneath the torture of every
glance. There is the record of crime—there, in every altered lineament
of that well known face. How pale the withered cheek—how faint the
smile that tries to make light and conceal the evil under which the
soul is writhing.
And could Calantha see it, and yet live? Could she behold him kind,
compassionating, mournful, and yet survive it? No—no frenzy of despair,
no racking pains of ill requited love, no, not all that sentiment and
romance can paint or fancy, were ever equal to that moment. Before
severity, she had not bowed—before contempt, she had not shed one
tear—against every menace, she felt hardened; but, in the presence of
that pale and altered brow, she sunk at once. With grave but gentle
earnestness, he raised her from the earth. She durst not look upon
him. She could not stand the reproachful glances of that eye, that
dark eye which sometimes softened into love, then flamed again into
the fire of resentment. She knelt not for mercy: she prayed not for
pardon: a gloomy pride supported her; and the dark frown that lowered
over his features was answered by the calm of fixed despair.
They were alone. Lord Avondale, upon arriving, had sought her in her
own apartment: he had heard of her illness. The duke had repeatedly
implored him to return; he had at length tardily obeyed the summons.
After a silence of some moments: “Have I deserved this?” he cried.
“Oh Calantha, have I indeed deserved it?” She made no answer to this
appeal. “There was a time,” he said, “when I knew how to address
you—when the few cares and vexations, that ever intruded themselves,
were lightened by your presence; and forgotten in the kindness and
sweetness of your conversation. You were my comfort and my solace;
your wishes were what I most consulted; your opinions and inclinations
were the rule of all my actions. But I wish not to grieve you by
reminding you of a state of mutual confidence and happiness which we
never more can enjoy.
“If you have a heart,” he continued, looking at her mournfully, “it
must already be deeply wounded by the remembrance of your behaviour
to me, and can need no reproaches. The greatest to a feeling mind is
the knowledge that it has acted unworthily; that it has abused the
confidence reposed in it, and blasted the hopes of one, who relied
solely upon its affection. You have betrayed me. Oh! Calantha, had
you the heart? I will not tell you how by degrees suspicion first
entered my mind, till being more plainly informed of the cruel
truth, I attempted, but in vain, to banish every trace of you from my
affections. I have not succeeded—I cannot succeed. Triumph at hearing
this if you will. The habit of years is strong. Your image and that
of crime and dishonour, can never enter my mind together. Put me not
then to the agony of speaking to you in a manner you could not bear,
and I should repent. They say you are not yet guilty; and that the man
for whom I was abandoned has generously saved you ... but consider
the magnitude of those injuries which I have received; and think me
not harsh, if I pronounce this doom upon myself and you:—Calantha,
we must part.”
The stern brow gave way before these words; and the paleness of death
overspread her form. Scarce could she support herself. He continued:
“Whatever it may cost me, and much no doubt I shall suffer, I can
be firm. No importunity from others, no stratagems shall prevail.
I came, because I would not shrink from the one painful trial I had
imposed upon myself. For yours and other’s sakes, I came, because I
thought it best to break to you myself my irrevocable determination.
Too long I have felt your power: too dearly I loved you, to cast
dishonour upon your as yet unsullied name. The world may pardon, and
friends will still surround you. I will give you half of all that I
possess on earth; and I will see that you are supported and treated
with respect. You will be loved and honoured; and, more than this, our
children, Calantha, even those precious and dear ties which should
have reminded you of your duty to them, if not to me,—yes, even our
children, I will not take from you, as long as your future conduct
may authorize me in leaving them under your care. I will not tear you
from every remaining hope; nor by severity, plunge you into further
guilt; but as for him, say only that he for whom I am abandoned was
unworthy.”
As he uttered these words, the frenzy of passion for one moment shook
his frame. Calantha in terror snatched his hand. “Oh, hear me, hear me,
and be merciful!” she cried, throwing herself before his feet.—“For
God’s sake hear me.” “The injury was great,” he cried: “the villain
was masked; but the remembrance of it is deep and eternal.”
He struggled to extricate his hand from her grasp: it was cold, and
trembling.... “Calm yourself,” he at length said, recovering his
composure: “these scenes may break my heart, but they cannot alter
its purpose. I may see your tears, and while under the influence
of a woman I have loved too well, be moved to my own dishonour. I
may behold you humble, penitent, wretched, and being man, not have
strength of mind to resist.”
“And is there no hope, Avondale?” “None for me,” he replied mournfully:
“you have stabbed here even to my very heart of hearts.” “Oh, hear me!
look upon me.” “Grant that I yield, wretched woman; say that I forgive
you—that you make use of my attachment to mislead my feelings—Calantha,
can you picture to yourself the scene that must ensue? Can you look
onward into after life, and trace the progress of our melancholy
journey through it? Can you do this, and yet attempt to realize, what
I shudder even at contemplating? Unblest in each other, solitary,
suspicious, irritated, and deeply injured—if we live alone, we shall
curse the hours as they pass, and if we rush for consolation into
society, misrepresented, pointed at, derided,—oh, how shall we bear
it?”
Her shrieks, her tears, now overpowered every other feeling. “Then it
is for the last time we meet. You come to tell me this. You think I
can endure it?” “We will not endure it,” he cried fiercely, breaking
from her. “I wish not to speak with severity; but beware, for my
whole soul is in agony, and fierce passion domineers: tempt me not
to harm you, my beloved: return to your father: I will write—I will
see you again” ... “Oh! leave me not—yet hear me.—I am not guilty—I
am innocent—Henry, I am innocent.”
Calantha knelt before him, as she spoke:—her tears choaked her voice.
“Yet hear me; look at me once; see, see in this face if it bear traces
of guilt. Look, Henry. You will not leave me.” She fell before him;
and knelt at his feet. “Do you remember how you once loved me?” she
said, clasping his hand in her’s. “Think how dear we have been to
each other: and will you now abandon me? Henry, my husband, have you
forgotten me? Look at the boy. Is it not yours? Am I not its mother?
Will you cause her death who gave him life? Will you cast disgrace
upon the mother of your child? Can you abandon me—can you, have you
the heart?... Have mercy, oh my God! have mercy.... I am innocent.”