CHAPTER XXXIII.To wake is terrible when the heaviness of sin is upon us!—to wake, and see every object around us the same as before; but to feel that we are utterly changed! I am still in a father’s house, she thought, as late the ensuing morning she opened her eyes. “My name is not yet branded with disgrace; but I belong alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. Seymour sent for her: the nurse entered with the children. But Calantha looked upon the ring, and trembled.Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, dressing in haste, entered Mrs. Seymour’s room. Never had she found it easy to deceive till that moment. To tell her the truth had been to kill her: she feigned therefore with ease, for her aunt’s life required it, and she herself was desperate.“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” she replied, nor blushed at affirming it. “Two days, and you have not seen Glenarvon?” she said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I thought one had killed me,” replied Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” and she hurried from her presence.Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode out the whole of the day: it seemed to her as if a moment’s pause or rest would have been agony unutterable. And yet, when the spirit is heavy there is something unpleasant in the velocity of motion: throwing, therefore, the reins upon her well-trained steed, she paced slowly over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections which it had been pain to interrupt.Suddenly a horse and rider, in full speed, darting along the moor, approached and crossed upon her path. “Whither ride you lady, so slow?” said Miss St. Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce reining in her swift footed charger. “Andwhither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said Calantha, courteously returning her salute. “To perdition,” cried Elinor; “and they that wish to follow must ride apace.” The hat and plume of sacred green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, were all but too well observed by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. Clara, fixing her dark eyes upon her, asked her respecting him. “Is thy young lover well?” she said; “and wilt thou be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: he could not rest: didst thou?” Saying which, she smiled, and rode away.Oppressed with many bitter doubts, Calantha returned to the Castle; and what is strange, she felt coldly towards Glenarvon. On her return, she found letters from him far the most ardent, the most impassioned she had yet received. He spoke with grief of her unkindness: he urged her by every tie most dear, most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. Yet, that night, she went not to meethim; she wrote not kindly; she loved not. She retired early; and her thoughts were painful and terrible. But such is the inconsistency of the human heart; her coldness seemed but to encrease his ardour. She received that night, the warmest, the most unguarded letters; she even now dreaded the violence of his attachment. Remorse, she felt, had taken the place of passion in her own heart: for all within was chilled, was changed.As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling to think—unable to forget, she heard a step stealing along the passage; and in a moment Glenarvon entered her apartment. “We are lost,” she cried. “I care not,” he said, “so that I but see you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak lower,” he said, approaching her: “be calm, for think you that when you have risked so much for me, I dare not share the danger. After all, what is it? Whoever enters must do it at their peril: their life shall pay the forfeit: Iam armed.”—“Good God! how terrible are your looks: I love you; but I fear you.”“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, “that day when I first told you of my love? You blushed then, and wept: did you not? But you have forgotten to do either now. Why, then, this strange confusion?”—“I am sick at heart. Leave me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear of all earthly beings, turn not thus away from me; look not as if you feared to meet me; feel not regret; for if it be a crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me alone. I know how men of the world can swear and forswear: I know, too, how much will be attempted to sever you from me: but by that God in whose sacred eye we stand; by all that the human heart and soul can believe and cherish, I am not one of that base kind, who would ever betray the woman that trusted in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, I could not change. You are all on earththat I love, and, perhaps what is better worth, that I esteem and respect—that I honor as above every other in goodness, purity and generous noble feelings. O! think not so humbly of yourself: say not that you are degraded. My admiration of you shall excuse your error: my faithful attachment whilst existence is given to either of us shall atone for all. Look on me, my only friend; dry up the tears that fall for an involuntary fault; and consider me as your protector, your lover, your husband.”There required not many words, not many protestations. Calantha wept bitterly; but she felt happy. “If you change now,” she said, “what will become of me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, from this country: I ask not for other ties than those that already bind us. Yet I once more repeat it, I know you must despise me.”—“What are words and vows, my heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what are they? The false, the vain, the worldly-mindedhave made use of them; but I must have recourse to them, Calantha, since you can look at me, and yet mistrust me. No villany that ever yet existed, can exceed that which my falsehood to you would now evince. This is no common worldly attachment: no momentary intoxication of passion. Often I have loved: many I have seen; but none ever sacrificed for me what you have done; and for none upon earth did I ever feel what I do for you. I might have made you mine long ago: perhaps I might have abused the confidence shewn me, and the interest and enthusiasm I had created; but, alas! you would then have despised me. I conquered myself; but it was to secure you more entirely. I am yours only: consent therefore to fly with me. Make any trial you please of my truth. What I speak I have written: my letters you may shew, my actions you may observe and sift. I have not one thought that is unknown to you—one wish, onehope of which you are not the first and sole object. Many disbelieve that I am serious in my desire that you should accompany me in my flight. They know me not: I have no views, no projects. Men of the world look alone to fortune, fame, or interest; but what am I? The sacrifice is solely on your part: I would to God it were on mine. If even you refuse to follow me, I will not make this a plea for abandoning you: I will hover around, will protect, will watch over you. Your love makes my happiness: it is my sole hope in life. Even were you to change to me, I could not but be true to you.”Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to accompany him: he risked much; and seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding the guileful heart; and he who had deceived many, could assuredly deceive her. Yet it appears, that he urged her more than ever to fly with him; and that when, at length she said that her resolution was fixed—thatshe would go, his eyes in triumph gloried in the assurance; and with a fervour he could not have feigned he called her his. Hitherto, some virtuous, some religious hopes, had still sustained her: now all ceased; perversion led the way to crime, and hardness of heart and insensibility followed.One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her confessions of former scenes. One by one, he betrayed to her the confidence others had reposed in his honour. She saw the wiles and windings of his mind, nor abhorred them: she heard his mockery of all that is good and noble; nor turned from him. Is it the nature of guilty love thus to pervert the very soul? Or what in so short a period could have operated so great a change? Till now the hope of saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had led her on: now frantic and perverted passion absorbed all other hopes; and the crime he had commended, whatever had been its drift, she had not feared to commit.Calantha had read of love, and felt it; she had laughed at the sickening rhapsodies of sentiment, and turned with disgust from the inflammatory pages of looser pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented every feeling she most abhorred; and it was in herself, she found the reality of all that during her whole existence, she had looked upon with contempt and disgust. Every remaining scruple left her; she still urged delay; but to accompany her master and lover, was now her firm resolve.
To wake is terrible when the heaviness of sin is upon us!—to wake, and see every object around us the same as before; but to feel that we are utterly changed! I am still in a father’s house, she thought, as late the ensuing morning she opened her eyes. “My name is not yet branded with disgrace; but I belong alone upon earth to Glenarvon.” Mrs. Seymour sent for her: the nurse entered with the children. But Calantha looked upon the ring, and trembled.
Lady Avondale ordered her horses, and, dressing in haste, entered Mrs. Seymour’s room. Never had she found it easy to deceive till that moment. To tell her the truth had been to kill her: she feigned therefore with ease, for her aunt’s life required it, and she herself was desperate.“Have you kept your resolution, my Calantha?”—“Yes,” she replied, nor blushed at affirming it. “Two days, and you have not seen Glenarvon?” she said, with a faint smile! Is this possible?—“I thought one had killed me,” replied Calantha; “but I look well; do I not?” and she hurried from her presence.
Calantha’s horses awaited: she rode out the whole of the day: it seemed to her as if a moment’s pause or rest would have been agony unutterable. And yet, when the spirit is heavy there is something unpleasant in the velocity of motion: throwing, therefore, the reins upon her well-trained steed, she paced slowly over the mountain’s side, lost in reflections which it had been pain to interrupt.
Suddenly a horse and rider, in full speed, darting along the moor, approached and crossed upon her path. “Whither ride you lady, so slow?” said Miss St. Clara, whom she now recognized, scarce reining in her swift footed charger. “Andwhither ride you, Lady, so fast?” said Calantha, courteously returning her salute. “To perdition,” cried Elinor; “and they that wish to follow must ride apace.” The hat and plume of sacred green, the emerald clasp, the gift of Glenarvon, were all but too well observed by Calantha. Deeply she blushed, as St. Clara, fixing her dark eyes upon her, asked her respecting him. “Is thy young lover well?” she said; “and wilt thou be one of us? He slept last night at Belfont: he could not rest: didst thou?” Saying which, she smiled, and rode away.
Oppressed with many bitter doubts, Calantha returned to the Castle; and what is strange, she felt coldly towards Glenarvon. On her return, she found letters from him far the most ardent, the most impassioned she had yet received. He spoke with grief of her unkindness: he urged her by every tie most dear, most sacred, to see him, and fly with him. Yet, that night, she went not to meethim; she wrote not kindly; she loved not. She retired early; and her thoughts were painful and terrible. But such is the inconsistency of the human heart; her coldness seemed but to encrease his ardour. She received that night, the warmest, the most unguarded letters; she even now dreaded the violence of his attachment. Remorse, she felt, had taken the place of passion in her own heart: for all within was chilled, was changed.
As she thus sat in sullen silence, unwilling to think—unable to forget, she heard a step stealing along the passage; and in a moment Glenarvon entered her apartment. “We are lost,” she cried. “I care not,” he said, “so that I but see you.”—“For God’s sake, leave me.”—“Speak lower,” he said, approaching her: “be calm, for think you that when you have risked so much for me, I dare not share the danger. After all, what is it? Whoever enters must do it at their peril: their life shall pay the forfeit: Iam armed.”—“Good God! how terrible are your looks: I love you; but I fear you.”
“Do you remember,” said Glenarvon, “that day when I first told you of my love? You blushed then, and wept: did you not? But you have forgotten to do either now. Why, then, this strange confusion?”—“I am sick at heart. Leave me.”—“Never! O most loved, most dear of all earthly beings, turn not thus away from me; look not as if you feared to meet me; feel not regret; for if it be a crime, that be on me, Calantha—on me alone. I know how men of the world can swear and forswear: I know, too, how much will be attempted to sever you from me: but by that God in whose sacred eye we stand; by all that the human heart and soul can believe and cherish, I am not one of that base kind, who would ever betray the woman that trusted in me. Even were you unfaithful to me, I could not change. You are all on earththat I love, and, perhaps what is better worth, that I esteem and respect—that I honor as above every other in goodness, purity and generous noble feelings. O! think not so humbly of yourself: say not that you are degraded. My admiration of you shall excuse your error: my faithful attachment whilst existence is given to either of us shall atone for all. Look on me, my only friend; dry up the tears that fall for an involuntary fault; and consider me as your protector, your lover, your husband.”
There required not many words, not many protestations. Calantha wept bitterly; but she felt happy. “If you change now,” she said, “what will become of me? Let me go with you, Glenarvon, from this country: I ask not for other ties than those that already bind us. Yet I once more repeat it, I know you must despise me.”—“What are words and vows, my heart’s life, my soul’s idol, what are they? The false, the vain, the worldly-mindedhave made use of them; but I must have recourse to them, Calantha, since you can look at me, and yet mistrust me. No villany that ever yet existed, can exceed that which my falsehood to you would now evince. This is no common worldly attachment: no momentary intoxication of passion. Often I have loved: many I have seen; but none ever sacrificed for me what you have done; and for none upon earth did I ever feel what I do for you. I might have made you mine long ago: perhaps I might have abused the confidence shewn me, and the interest and enthusiasm I had created; but, alas! you would then have despised me. I conquered myself; but it was to secure you more entirely. I am yours only: consent therefore to fly with me. Make any trial you please of my truth. What I speak I have written: my letters you may shew, my actions you may observe and sift. I have not one thought that is unknown to you—one wish, onehope of which you are not the first and sole object. Many disbelieve that I am serious in my desire that you should accompany me in my flight. They know me not: I have no views, no projects. Men of the world look alone to fortune, fame, or interest; but what am I? The sacrifice is solely on your part: I would to God it were on mine. If even you refuse to follow me, I will not make this a plea for abandoning you: I will hover around, will protect, will watch over you. Your love makes my happiness: it is my sole hope in life. Even were you to change to me, I could not but be true to you.”
Did Glenarvon really wish Calantha to accompany him: he risked much; and seemed to desire it. But there is no understanding the guileful heart; and he who had deceived many, could assuredly deceive her. Yet it appears, that he urged her more than ever to fly with him; and that when, at length she said that her resolution was fixed—thatshe would go, his eyes in triumph gloried in the assurance; and with a fervour he could not have feigned he called her his. Hitherto, some virtuous, some religious hopes, had still sustained her: now all ceased; perversion led the way to crime, and hardness of heart and insensibility followed.
One by one, Glenarvon repeated to her confessions of former scenes. One by one, he betrayed to her the confidence others had reposed in his honour. She saw the wiles and windings of his mind, nor abhorred them: she heard his mockery of all that is good and noble; nor turned from him. Is it the nature of guilty love thus to pervert the very soul? Or what in so short a period could have operated so great a change? Till now the hope of saving, of guarding, of reclaiming, had led her on: now frantic and perverted passion absorbed all other hopes; and the crime he had commended, whatever had been its drift, she had not feared to commit.
Calantha had read of love, and felt it; she had laughed at the sickening rhapsodies of sentiment, and turned with disgust from the inflammatory pages of looser pens; but, alas! her own heart now presented every feeling she most abhorred; and it was in herself, she found the reality of all that during her whole existence, she had looked upon with contempt and disgust. Every remaining scruple left her; she still urged delay; but to accompany her master and lover, was now her firm resolve.