CHAPTER XXIX.The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count, though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were. Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening. Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense, O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching an opportunity hastened to thedoor. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward.“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured; confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never, never,”she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said, in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty; grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am thus with you.”There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look, so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that very time he shrunk from the joy sheprofessed; for he knew that he had led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever.“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes; for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name! Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it. You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been myvictims; I, alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you, and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their suspicions; but do not yourefuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor, every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?”“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her full in the face. “Alas! if I dothus, how will yourself despise me. When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it is nothing to it.”“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,” said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I will trust you; but nottill then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.” “And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.” “Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what disguise would I not assume to see you?”O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his ear.—“Iwill attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.” “Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks: you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home.
The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count, though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were. Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening. Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense, O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching an opportunity hastened to thedoor. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward.
“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured; confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never, never,”she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said, in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty; grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am thus with you.”
There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look, so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that very time he shrunk from the joy sheprofessed; for he knew that he had led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever.
“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes; for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name! Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it. You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been myvictims; I, alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you, and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their suspicions; but do not yourefuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor, every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?”
“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her full in the face. “Alas! if I dothus, how will yourself despise me. When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it is nothing to it.”
“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,” said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I will trust you; but nottill then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.” “And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.” “Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what disguise would I not assume to see you?”
O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his ear.—“Iwill attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.” “Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks: you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home.