CHAPTER XXXI.In the course of the day, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha “I have never sought to win you to me after the manner other men might desire,” he said. “I have respected your opinions; and I have resisted more than woman’s feelings can conceive. But Calantha you have shared the struggle. I have marked in your eye the fire of passion, in the quivering of your lip and changing complexion, the fierce power which destroyed you. When in the soft language of poetry, I have read to you, or spoken with the warmth I knew not how to feign, you have turned from me it is true; but pride more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. Every principle in your heart is shaken; every tie that ought to bind thee most, is broken; and I who shouldtriumph at my success, weep only for thy fall. I found thee innocent, confiding and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh God! wilt thou thus be left? wilt thou know that thy soul itself partakes in thy guilt, wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you have given me a solemn promise to meet me in secret: it is the first time concealment has been rendered necessary. I know your nature too well, not to be convinced that you are already preparing to retract. Do so, if it be your will:—I wish you not to take one step without fully appreciating its consequences, and the crime incurred. I have never disguised to you the guilt of our attachment since the moment in which I felt assured of my own sentiments. I wished you to feel the sacrifice you were making: how otherwise could I consider it as any? my love is worth some risk. Every one knows my weakness; and did you feel half what you inspire, you would beproud, you would glory in what you now attempt to hide. The woman I love, must see, must hear, must believe and confide in no other but me. I renounce every other for you—And, now that I claim you as my own, expect the fulfilment of your many professions. Shew me that you can be firm and true: give yourself to me entirely: you are mine; and you must prove it. I am preferred before every earthly being in my Calantha’s heart—my dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed I have long ceased to entertain a single doubt; but now I require more. Even in religious faith—even in hopes, in reliance upon the mercy of God, I cannot bear a competitor and a rival.”“There is a rite accounted infamous amongst christians:—there is an oath which it is terrible to take. By this, by this alone, I will have you bound to me—not here alone, but if there be a long hereafter then shall we evermore be linked together: then shall you be minefar more, far dearer than either mistress or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery of superstition: but what on earth deserves a higher name? Every varying custom and every long-established form, whether in our own land, or those far distant tracts which the foot of man has rarely traversed, deserves no higher name. The customs of our forefathers—the habit of years, give a venerable and sacred appearance to many rites; but all is a dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the frail perishable attempts of human invention. Even the love we feel, Calantha—the beaming fires which now stimulate our hearts, and raise us above others is but illusion—like the bright exhalations which appear to mislead, then vanish and leave us more gloomy than before.”Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand was cold; no varying colour, no trepidation shewed either life or vigour; there was a struggle in her mind; anda voice seemed to call to her from her inmost soul: “For the last time, Calantha, it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last time I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience as it cries to thee for the last time:—go not to thy ruin; plunge not thy soul into the pit of hell; hurl not destruction upon thy head. What is this sin against thy religion? How canst thou throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy God? It is a mere mockery of words; a jealous desire to possess every avenue of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee from every feeling of remorse and virtue; to plunge thee in eternal perdition. Hear me: by thy mother’s name I call: go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... “Am I mad, or wherefore is my soul distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again to me: my comforter—my heart’s friend, oh leave me not. By every tie thou art bound to me: never, never will I forsake thee. What are the reproaches of conscience—what the fancied pangs of remorse,to the glory, the ecstacy of being thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, perhaps, by all who hear my fate, I have lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity I may be called upon to endure. Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. Thy words are like the joys of Heaven: Thy presence is the light of life: existence without thee would not be worth the purchase.—Come all the woes that may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.”The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.” The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp, as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.”I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not judge who cannot understand.Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe, that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death for my sake.Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier! alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock: she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.”
In the course of the day, Glenarvon wrote to Calantha “I have never sought to win you to me after the manner other men might desire,” he said. “I have respected your opinions; and I have resisted more than woman’s feelings can conceive. But Calantha you have shared the struggle. I have marked in your eye the fire of passion, in the quivering of your lip and changing complexion, the fierce power which destroyed you. When in the soft language of poetry, I have read to you, or spoken with the warmth I knew not how to feign, you have turned from me it is true; but pride more than virtue, inclined your firm resistance. Every principle in your heart is shaken; every tie that ought to bind thee most, is broken; and I who shouldtriumph at my success, weep only for thy fall. I found thee innocent, confiding and sincere: I leave thee—but, oh God! wilt thou thus be left? wilt thou know that thy soul itself partakes in thy guilt, wilt thou forsake me?” “Upon this night,” continued Glenarvon, “you have given me a solemn promise to meet me in secret: it is the first time concealment has been rendered necessary. I know your nature too well, not to be convinced that you are already preparing to retract. Do so, if it be your will:—I wish you not to take one step without fully appreciating its consequences, and the crime incurred. I have never disguised to you the guilt of our attachment since the moment in which I felt assured of my own sentiments. I wished you to feel the sacrifice you were making: how otherwise could I consider it as any? my love is worth some risk. Every one knows my weakness; and did you feel half what you inspire, you would beproud, you would glory in what you now attempt to hide. The woman I love, must see, must hear, must believe and confide in no other but me. I renounce every other for you—And, now that I claim you as my own, expect the fulfilment of your many professions. Shew me that you can be firm and true: give yourself to me entirely: you are mine; and you must prove it. I am preferred before every earthly being in my Calantha’s heart—my dearest, my only friend. Of this indeed I have long ceased to entertain a single doubt; but now I require more. Even in religious faith—even in hopes, in reliance upon the mercy of God, I cannot bear a competitor and a rival.”
“There is a rite accounted infamous amongst christians:—there is an oath which it is terrible to take. By this, by this alone, I will have you bound to me—not here alone, but if there be a long hereafter then shall we evermore be linked together: then shall you be minefar more, far dearer than either mistress or bride. It is, I own, a mere mockery of superstition: but what on earth deserves a higher name? Every varying custom and every long-established form, whether in our own land, or those far distant tracts which the foot of man has rarely traversed, deserves no higher name. The customs of our forefathers—the habit of years, give a venerable and sacred appearance to many rites; but all is a dream, the mere colouring of fancy, the frail perishable attempts of human invention. Even the love we feel, Calantha—the beaming fires which now stimulate our hearts, and raise us above others is but illusion—like the bright exhalations which appear to mislead, then vanish and leave us more gloomy than before.”
Calantha’s eyes were fixed; her hand was cold; no varying colour, no trepidation shewed either life or vigour; there was a struggle in her mind; anda voice seemed to call to her from her inmost soul: “For the last time, Calantha, it seemed to say, I warn thee, for the last time I warn thee. Oh hear the voice of conscience as it cries to thee for the last time:—go not to thy ruin; plunge not thy soul into the pit of hell; hurl not destruction upon thy head. What is this sin against thy religion? How canst thou throw off thy faith and reliance upon thy God? It is a mere mockery of words; a jealous desire to possess every avenue of thy heart’s affections, to snatch thee from every feeling of remorse and virtue; to plunge thee in eternal perdition. Hear me: by thy mother’s name I call: go not to thy soul’s ruin and shame”.... “Am I mad, or wherefore is my soul distracted? Oh Glenarvon, come again to me: my comforter—my heart’s friend, oh leave me not. By every tie thou art bound to me: never, never will I forsake thee. What are the reproaches of conscience—what the fancied pangs of remorse,to the glory, the ecstacy of being thine! Low as I am fallen; despised, perhaps, by all who hear my fate, I have lived one hour of joy, worth every calamity I may be called upon to endure. Return Glenarvon, adored, beloved. Thy words are like the joys of Heaven: Thy presence is the light of life: existence without thee would not be worth the purchase.—Come all the woes that may, upon me, never will I forsake Glenarvon.”
The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.” The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp, as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.”
I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not judge who cannot understand.
Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe, that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death for my sake.
Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier! alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock: she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.”