CHAPTER XIX.There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint—there are hours of agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant vice and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one prayer; upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy; and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirelypossessed himself of her imagination.Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid secret, which weighed upon his mind. He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; then turn to Calantha, and ask her what she had heard and seen. His gestures, his menaces were terrific. He would talk to the air; then laugh with convulsive horror; and gazing wildly around, enquire of her, if there were not blood upon the earth, and if the ghosts of departed men had not been seen by some.Calantha thought that madness had fallen upon his mind, and wept to think that talents such as his were darkened and shrouded over by so heavy a calamity. But when the fierce moment was passed, tears would force their way into his eyes, and placing her hand upon his burning head, he would call her his sole comforter, the only hope that was left him upon earth; his dearest, his only friend;and he would talk to her of happier times; of virtues that had been early blighted; of hopes that his own rashness and errors had destroyed.It was one day, one dark and fatal day, when passion raging in his bosom, and time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly approached her, and seizing her with violence, asked her if she returned his love. “My friendship is ruin,” he cried; “all alliance with me must cast disgrace upon the object of my regard. But, Calantha, you must be mine! May I not even now call you thus? Shall they ever persuade you to abandon me? Vain is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; “I love you to madness and to distraction—you know it too well. Why then suffer me to feel the tortures I endure, when a word—a look from you could relieve me. You are not indifferent: say then that you are not—thou, who alone canst save me. Here even, in the presence of heaven, I will open my wholeheart before you—that heart is seared with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed wounds, incurable and deadly. A few short years, I have perhaps yet to linger: thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge me still lower, whilst I cling to thee for mercy; but will you do it, because you have the power?”Calantha scarce could support herself. After a moment’s pause, he continued, “You shall hear me.—Never, since the hour of my birth, never—I make no exception of either the living, or, what is far dearer and more sacred to me, the dead—never did I love with such mad and frantic violence as now. O seek not to disguise it; that love is returned. I read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; and whilst, with assumed and barbarous coldness, you would drive me from you, your own heart pleads for me; and, like myself, you love.”Faint and trembling, Calantha now leant for support upon that arm whichsurrounded her, and from which she, in vain, attempted to shrink. It was a dreadful moment. Glenarvon, who never yet had sued in vain, marked every varying turn of her countenance which too well expressed his empire and her own weakness. “I cannot live without you.—Mine you are—mine you shall ever be,” he said, “whilst this heart beats with life.” Then with a smile of exultation, he seized her in his arms.Starting however with all the terror which the first approach to guilt must ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified and trembling: “even though my heart should break in the struggle, let me not act so basely by him to whom I am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not hate me—say only,” he continued, with more gentleness, and pressing her hand to his lips—“say only, that you share the tortures of agony you have inflicted—say that which I know and see—that I am loved to adoration—even as I love you.”With tears she besought him to spare her. “I feel your power too much,” she said. “All that I ought not—must not say, I think and feel. Be satisfied; your empire is complete. Spare me—save me; I have not power to feign.” Her tears fell now unrestrained. “There is no need of this,” he said, recovering himself; “you have sealed my fate. A moment of passion beguiled me: I am calm now, as when first I met you—calm and cold, even as yourself. Since it is your wish, and since my presence makes your misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often said; but it shall be alone. My country I leave without regret; for the chain of tyranny has encompassed it: friends, I have none; and thou, who wert as an angel of light to me—to whom I knelt for safety and for peace—mayst thou be blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for me, nothing can increase the misery I feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to share it. This is no lover’s despondency—no sudden and violent paroxysm occasionedby disappointed passion. It is uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness of despair: it is the confession, not the repining of a heart that was early blighted and destroyed.”Calantha now interrupted him. “I alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk not of leaving me; we may still be friends—we must never be more.” “Oh! promise that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon looked on her with kindness. “Let no fears dissuade you until I shew myself unworthy of the trust. Forsake not him, whose only happiness is in your affection. I was joyless and without hope, when first I met you; but the return, to loneliness and misery, is hard to bear. Be virtuous, and, if it may be so, be happy.” “That I never more can be,” she answered. “You are young in sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know not its dangers, its pleasures, or its bitterness. All this, ere long, will be forgotten.” “Never forgotten,” she replied, “oh never!”
There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint—there are hours of agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant vice and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one prayer; upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy; and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirelypossessed himself of her imagination.
Glenarvon had said, there was a horrid secret, which weighed upon his mind. He would start at times, and gaze on vacancy; then turn to Calantha, and ask her what she had heard and seen. His gestures, his menaces were terrific. He would talk to the air; then laugh with convulsive horror; and gazing wildly around, enquire of her, if there were not blood upon the earth, and if the ghosts of departed men had not been seen by some.
Calantha thought that madness had fallen upon his mind, and wept to think that talents such as his were darkened and shrouded over by so heavy a calamity. But when the fierce moment was passed, tears would force their way into his eyes, and placing her hand upon his burning head, he would call her his sole comforter, the only hope that was left him upon earth; his dearest, his only friend;and he would talk to her of happier times; of virtues that had been early blighted; of hopes that his own rashness and errors had destroyed.
It was one day, one dark and fatal day, when passion raging in his bosom, and time and opportunity at hand, he suddenly approached her, and seizing her with violence, asked her if she returned his love. “My friendship is ruin,” he cried; “all alliance with me must cast disgrace upon the object of my regard. But, Calantha, you must be mine! May I not even now call you thus? Shall they ever persuade you to abandon me? Vain is all attempt at disguise,” he continued; “I love you to madness and to distraction—you know it too well. Why then suffer me to feel the tortures I endure, when a word—a look from you could relieve me. You are not indifferent: say then that you are not—thou, who alone canst save me. Here even, in the presence of heaven, I will open my wholeheart before you—that heart is seared with guilt; it is bleeding with venomed wounds, incurable and deadly. A few short years, I have perhaps yet to linger: thou mayest accelerate my fate, and plunge me still lower, whilst I cling to thee for mercy; but will you do it, because you have the power?”
Calantha scarce could support herself. After a moment’s pause, he continued, “You shall hear me.—Never, since the hour of my birth, never—I make no exception of either the living, or, what is far dearer and more sacred to me, the dead—never did I love with such mad and frantic violence as now. O seek not to disguise it; that love is returned. I read it even now in thine eyes, thy lips; and whilst, with assumed and barbarous coldness, you would drive me from you, your own heart pleads for me; and, like myself, you love.”
Faint and trembling, Calantha now leant for support upon that arm whichsurrounded her, and from which she, in vain, attempted to shrink. It was a dreadful moment. Glenarvon, who never yet had sued in vain, marked every varying turn of her countenance which too well expressed his empire and her own weakness. “I cannot live without you.—Mine you are—mine you shall ever be,” he said, “whilst this heart beats with life.” Then with a smile of exultation, he seized her in his arms.
Starting however with all the terror which the first approach to guilt must ever cause, “Spare me,” she cried, terrified and trembling: “even though my heart should break in the struggle, let me not act so basely by him to whom I am bound.”—“Say only, that you do not hate me—say only,” he continued, with more gentleness, and pressing her hand to his lips—“say only, that you share the tortures of agony you have inflicted—say that which I know and see—that I am loved to adoration—even as I love you.”
With tears she besought him to spare her. “I feel your power too much,” she said. “All that I ought not—must not say, I think and feel. Be satisfied; your empire is complete. Spare me—save me; I have not power to feign.” Her tears fell now unrestrained. “There is no need of this,” he said, recovering himself; “you have sealed my fate. A moment of passion beguiled me: I am calm now, as when first I met you—calm and cold, even as yourself. Since it is your wish, and since my presence makes your misery, let us part.—I go, as I have often said; but it shall be alone. My country I leave without regret; for the chain of tyranny has encompassed it: friends, I have none; and thou, who wert as an angel of light to me—to whom I knelt for safety and for peace—mayst thou be blest: this is all I ask of heaven. As for me, nothing can increase the misery I feel. I wish you not to believe it, or to share it. This is no lover’s despondency—no sudden and violent paroxysm occasionedby disappointed passion. It is uttered,” he continued, “in the hopelessness of despair: it is the confession, not the repining of a heart that was early blighted and destroyed.”
Calantha now interrupted him. “I alone am guilty,” she replied, “talk not of leaving me; we may still be friends—we must never be more.” “Oh! promise that we shall never be less.” Glenarvon looked on her with kindness. “Let no fears dissuade you until I shew myself unworthy of the trust. Forsake not him, whose only happiness is in your affection. I was joyless and without hope, when first I met you; but the return, to loneliness and misery, is hard to bear. Be virtuous, and, if it may be so, be happy.” “That I never more can be,” she answered. “You are young in sin yet,” said Glenarvon; “you know not its dangers, its pleasures, or its bitterness. All this, ere long, will be forgotten.” “Never forgotten,” she replied, “oh never!”