CHAPTER XXXIV.Glenarvon had retired unperceived by any, on the evening he had visited her, in her apartment. The following day he appeared at the castle; they both avoided each other: she indeed trembled at beholding him. “Meet me at the chapel to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she obeyed too well.They were returning through the wood: she paused one moment to look upon the sea: it was calm; and the air blew soft and fresh upon her burning forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... a female figure, passing through the thicket behind, with a hasty step approached them, and knelt down as if imploring for mercy. Her looks were wild; famine had stamped its hollow prints in furrows on her cheeks; she clasped herhands together; and fixing her eyes wildly upon Glenarvon, remained in silence.Terrified, Calantha threw herself for safety at his feet; and he clasping her closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh Glenarvon,” she cried, “look, look; it is not a human form: it is some dreadful vision, sent to us by the power of God, to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, fear not: no power shall harm you.”Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed for one moment on the thin and ghastly form, that had occasioned her terror. “God bless you,” cried the suppliant. He started at the hollow sound. It seemed to him indeed that the awful blessing was a melancholy reproach for his broken faith. He started: for in that emaciated form, in that wild and haggard eye, he thought he recognized some traces of one whom he had once taken spotless as innocence to his heart,—then left a prey to remorse and disappointment. For the sake of that resemblance, he offered moneyto the wretch who implored his mercy, and turned away, not to behold again so piteous, so melancholy a spectacle.Intently gazing upon him, she uttered a convulsive groan, and sunk extended on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon both flew forward to raise her. But the poor victim was no more: her spirit had burst from the slight bonds that yet retained it in a world of pain and sorrow. She had gazed for the last time upon her lover, who had robbed her of all happiness through life; and the same look, which had first awakened love in her bosom, now quenched the feeling and with it life itself. The last wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a curse for him who had abandoned her: and the tear that he shed unconsciously over a form so altered, that he did not know her, was the only tear that blessed the last hour of Calantha’s once favorite companion Alice Mac Allain.Oh! need a scene which occasionedher every bitter pang be repeated?—need it be said that, regardless of themselves or any conclusions which their being together at such an hour might have occasioned: they carried the unconscious girl to the door of the castle, where O’Kelly was waiting to receive them. Every one had retired to rest; it was late; and one of Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly alone remained in fearful anxiety watching for their return.Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless form before her, Calantha turned to Glenarvon. But his countenance was changed; his eyes were fixed. “It is herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the sight, a faintness came over him:—the name of Alice was pronounced by him. O’Kelly understood his master. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the girl in his arms, he promised Calantha to do all in his power to restore her, and only implored her to retire to her own apartment: “For my master’s sake,dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He was indeed no longer the same subservient strange being, he had shewn himself hitherto; he seemed to assume a new character, on an occasion which called for his utmost exertion; he was all activity and forethought, commanding every thing that was to be done, and awakening lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a sense of their situation.Although Lady Avondale was at last persuaded to retire, it may be supposed that she did not attempt to rest; and being obliged in some measure to inform her attendant of what had passed, she sent her frequently with messages to O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy friend. At last she returned with a few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. “Calantha,” he said, “You will now learn to shudder at my name, and look upon me with horror and execration. Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is Alice whom we beheld. She came totake one last look at the wretch who had seduced, and then abandoned her:—She is no more. Think not, that to screen myself, I have lost the means of preserving her.—Think me not base enough for this; but be assured that all care and assistance have been administered. The aid of the physician, however has been vain. Calm yourself Calantha: I am very calm.”The maid, as she gave this note, told Calantha that the young woman whom Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door of the castle, was poor Miss Alice—so altered, that her own father, she was sure would not know her. “Did you see her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly took me to see her, when I carried the message to him: and there I saw my Lord Glenarvon so good, so kind, doing every thing that was needed to assist her, so that it would have moved the heart of any one to have seen him.” While the attendant thus continued to talk,her young mistress wept, and having at length dismissed her, she opened the door, listening with suspense to every distant noise.It was six in the morning, when a loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused her hurrying down, she beheld a number of servants carrying some one for air, into one of the outer courts. It was not the lifeless corpse of Alice. From the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared a larger form, and, upon approaching still nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, who having arisen to enquire into the cause of the disquiet he heard in the house, had been abruptly informed by some of the servants, that his daughter had been discovered without any signs of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly and the other attendants had pressed forward to assist him.Calantha now leaving him in their hands, walked in trembling alarm,through the hall, once more to look upon her unhappy friend. There leaning against one of the high black marble pillars, pale, as the lifeless being whom, stretched before him, he still continued to contemplate, she perceived Glenarvon. His eyes were fixed: in his look there was all the bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: and in that noble form, the wreck of all that is great might be traced. “Look not thus,” she said, “Oh Glenarvon: it pierces my heart to see you thus: grief must not fall on one like you.” He took her hand, and pressed it to his heart; but he could not speak. He only pointed to the pale and famished form before him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt down by its side and wept in agony, “There was a time,” said he, “when I could have feared to cast this sin upon my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness and affection, as I have done. But I have grown callous to all; and now my only, my dearest friend, I will tear myselfaway from you for ever. I will not say God bless you:—I must not bless thee, who have brought thee to so much misery. Weep not for one unworthy of you:—I am not what you think, my Calantha. Unblessed myself, I can but give misery to all who approach me. All that follow after me come to this pass; for my love is death, and this is the reward of constancy. Poor Alice, but still more unhappy Calantha, my heart bleeds for you: for myself, I am indifferent.”Gerald now returned, supported by O’Kelly. The other servants, by his desire, had retired; and when he approached the spot were his child was laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave him. He did so; and Mac Allain advanced towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive a poor old man,” he said in a faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, my lord: a father’s curse in the agony of his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh lady Calantha,” said the old man, turningto her, “lord Glenarvon has been very noble and good to me; my sons had debts, and he paid all they owed: they had transgressed and he got them pardoned. You know not what I owe to my lord; and yet when he told me, this night, as I upbraided the wretch that had undone my child and was the cause of her dishonor and death, that it was himself had taken her from my heart; I knelt down and cursed him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon the agony of a wretched father, a poor old man who has lived too long.”Calantha could no longer master her feelings; her sobs, her cries were bitter and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly away. O’Kelly insisted upon the necessity of her assuming at least some self command; and whispering to her, that if she betrayed any violent agitation, the whole affair must be made public: he promised himself to bring her word of every minute particular, if she would for a few hours at least remain tranquil. “Ishall see you again,” she said, recovering herself and approaching Lord Glenarvon before she retired: “You are not going?” “Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I shall not leave the castle at this moment; it would look like fear; but after this, my dearest friend, I do not deceive myself, you cannot, you ought not more to think of me.” “I share your sorrows.” She said: “you are most miserable; think not then, that I can be otherwise.” “And can you still feel any interest for one like me? If I could believe this, even in the bitterness of affliction, I should still feel comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” “Never. Oh would to God I could; but it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon, more than ever, even were it to death. Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed her hand, in silence; then following her “for your dear sake, I will live,” he said. “You are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! how from my soul I honour you.”Calantha threw herself upon her bed; but her agitation was too great to allow of her recurring in thought to the past, and fatigue once again occasioned her taking a few moment’s rest.
Glenarvon had retired unperceived by any, on the evening he had visited her, in her apartment. The following day he appeared at the castle; they both avoided each other: she indeed trembled at beholding him. “Meet me at the chapel to-night,” he whispered. Alas! she obeyed too well.
They were returning through the wood: she paused one moment to look upon the sea: it was calm; and the air blew soft and fresh upon her burning forehead.—What dreadful sight is that ... a female figure, passing through the thicket behind, with a hasty step approached them, and knelt down as if imploring for mercy. Her looks were wild; famine had stamped its hollow prints in furrows on her cheeks; she clasped herhands together; and fixing her eyes wildly upon Glenarvon, remained in silence.
Terrified, Calantha threw herself for safety at his feet; and he clasping her closely to his bosom saw but her. “Oh Glenarvon,” she cried, “look, look; it is not a human form: it is some dreadful vision, sent to us by the power of God, to warn us.” “My soul, my Calantha, fear not: no power shall harm you.”
Turning from her, Glenarvon now gazed for one moment on the thin and ghastly form, that had occasioned her terror. “God bless you,” cried the suppliant. He started at the hollow sound. It seemed to him indeed that the awful blessing was a melancholy reproach for his broken faith. He started: for in that emaciated form, in that wild and haggard eye, he thought he recognized some traces of one whom he had once taken spotless as innocence to his heart,—then left a prey to remorse and disappointment. For the sake of that resemblance, he offered moneyto the wretch who implored his mercy, and turned away, not to behold again so piteous, so melancholy a spectacle.
Intently gazing upon him, she uttered a convulsive groan, and sunk extended on the earth. Calantha and Glenarvon both flew forward to raise her. But the poor victim was no more: her spirit had burst from the slight bonds that yet retained it in a world of pain and sorrow. She had gazed for the last time upon her lover, who had robbed her of all happiness through life; and the same look, which had first awakened love in her bosom, now quenched the feeling and with it life itself. The last wish of her heart, was a blessing, not a curse for him who had abandoned her: and the tear that he shed unconsciously over a form so altered, that he did not know her, was the only tear that blessed the last hour of Calantha’s once favorite companion Alice Mac Allain.
Oh! need a scene which occasionedher every bitter pang be repeated?—need it be said that, regardless of themselves or any conclusions which their being together at such an hour might have occasioned: they carried the unconscious girl to the door of the castle, where O’Kelly was waiting to receive them. Every one had retired to rest; it was late; and one of Calantha’s maids and O’Kelly alone remained in fearful anxiety watching for their return.
Terrified at the haggard looks, and lifeless form before her, Calantha turned to Glenarvon. But his countenance was changed; his eyes were fixed. “It is herself,” he cried; and unable to bear the sight, a faintness came over him:—the name of Alice was pronounced by him. O’Kelly understood his master. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, and seizing the girl in his arms, he promised Calantha to do all in his power to restore her, and only implored her to retire to her own apartment: “For my master’s sake,dear Lady, be persuaded,” he said. He was indeed no longer the same subservient strange being, he had shewn himself hitherto; he seemed to assume a new character, on an occasion which called for his utmost exertion; he was all activity and forethought, commanding every thing that was to be done, and awakening lord Glenarvon and Calantha to a sense of their situation.
Although Lady Avondale was at last persuaded to retire, it may be supposed that she did not attempt to rest; and being obliged in some measure to inform her attendant of what had passed, she sent her frequently with messages to O’Kelly to inquire concerning her unhappy friend. At last she returned with a few lines, written by lord Glenarvon. “Calantha,” he said, “You will now learn to shudder at my name, and look upon me with horror and execration. Prepare yourself for the worst:—It is Alice whom we beheld. She came totake one last look at the wretch who had seduced, and then abandoned her:—She is no more. Think not, that to screen myself, I have lost the means of preserving her.—Think me not base enough for this; but be assured that all care and assistance have been administered. The aid of the physician, however has been vain. Calm yourself Calantha: I am very calm.”
The maid, as she gave this note, told Calantha that the young woman whom Mr. O’Kelly, had discovered at the door of the castle, was poor Miss Alice—so altered, that her own father, she was sure would not know her. “Did you see her?” “O yes, my Lady: Mr. O’Kelly took me to see her, when I carried the message to him: and there I saw my Lord Glenarvon so good, so kind, doing every thing that was needed to assist her, so that it would have moved the heart of any one to have seen him.” While the attendant thus continued to talk,her young mistress wept, and having at length dismissed her, she opened the door, listening with suspense to every distant noise.
It was six in the morning, when a loud commotion upon the stairs, aroused her hurrying down, she beheld a number of servants carrying some one for air, into one of the outer courts. It was not the lifeless corpse of Alice. From the glimpse Calantha caught, it appeared a larger form, and, upon approaching still nearer, her heart sickened at perceiving that it was the old man, Gerald Mac Allain, who having arisen to enquire into the cause of the disquiet he heard in the house, had been abruptly informed by some of the servants, that his daughter had been discovered without any signs of life, at the gates of the castle. O’Kelly and the other attendants had pressed forward to assist him.
Calantha now leaving him in their hands, walked in trembling alarm,through the hall, once more to look upon her unhappy friend. There leaning against one of the high black marble pillars, pale, as the lifeless being whom, stretched before him, he still continued to contemplate, she perceived Glenarvon. His eyes were fixed: in his look there was all the bitterness of death; his cheek was hollow: and in that noble form, the wreck of all that is great might be traced. “Look not thus,” she said, “Oh Glenarvon: it pierces my heart to see you thus: grief must not fall on one like you.” He took her hand, and pressed it to his heart; but he could not speak. He only pointed to the pale and famished form before him; and Calantha perceiving it, knelt down by its side and wept in agony, “There was a time,” said he, “when I could have feared to cast this sin upon my soul, or rewarded so much tenderness and affection, as I have done. But I have grown callous to all; and now my only, my dearest friend, I will tear myselfaway from you for ever. I will not say God bless you:—I must not bless thee, who have brought thee to so much misery. Weep not for one unworthy of you:—I am not what you think, my Calantha. Unblessed myself, I can but give misery to all who approach me. All that follow after me come to this pass; for my love is death, and this is the reward of constancy. Poor Alice, but still more unhappy Calantha, my heart bleeds for you: for myself, I am indifferent.”
Gerald now returned, supported by O’Kelly. The other servants, by his desire, had retired; and when he approached the spot were his child was laid, he requested even O’Kelly to leave him. He did so; and Mac Allain advanced towards lord Glenarvon. “Forgive a poor old man,” he said in a faltering voice: “I spoke too severely, my lord: a father’s curse in the agony of his first despair, shall not be heard. Oh lady Calantha,” said the old man, turningto her, “lord Glenarvon has been very noble and good to me; my sons had debts, and he paid all they owed: they had transgressed and he got them pardoned. You know not what I owe to my lord; and yet when he told me, this night, as I upbraided the wretch that had undone my child and was the cause of her dishonor and death, that it was himself had taken her from my heart; I knelt down and cursed him. Oh God, Oh God! pardon the agony of a wretched father, a poor old man who has lived too long.”
Calantha could no longer master her feelings; her sobs, her cries were bitter and terrible. They wished to bear her forcibly away. O’Kelly insisted upon the necessity of her assuming at least some self command; and whispering to her, that if she betrayed any violent agitation, the whole affair must be made public: he promised himself to bring her word of every minute particular, if she would for a few hours at least remain tranquil. “Ishall see you again,” she said, recovering herself and approaching Lord Glenarvon before she retired: “You are not going?” “Going!” said he: “undoubtedly I shall not leave the castle at this moment; it would look like fear; but after this, my dearest friend, I do not deceive myself, you cannot, you ought not more to think of me.” “I share your sorrows.” She said: “you are most miserable; think not then, that I can be otherwise.” “And can you still feel any interest for one like me? If I could believe this, even in the bitterness of affliction, I should still feel comfort:—but, you will learn to hate me.” “Never. Oh would to God I could; but it is too late now. I love you, Glenarvon, more than ever, even were it to death. Depend on me.” Glenarvon pressed her hand, in silence; then following her “for your dear sake, I will live,” he said. “You are my only hope now. Oh Calantha! how from my soul I honour you.”
Calantha threw herself upon her bed; but her agitation was too great to allow of her recurring in thought to the past, and fatigue once again occasioned her taking a few moment’s rest.