CHAPTER XXXV.When Lady Avondale awoke from her slumbers she found the whole castle in a state of confusion. Lady Margaret had twice sent for her. Every one was occupied with this extraordinary event. Her name, and Lord Glenarvon’s were mentioned together, and conjectures, concerning the whole scene, were made by every individual.At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, the body of Alice was conveyed to his own house, near the Garden Cottage. He wished no one to be informed of the particulars of her melancholy fate. He came, however, a few days after her removal, to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but mediately admitted him. They talked together upon all that had occurred. He gave her a letter, and a broach, whichhad been found upon the body. It was addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was also a lock of hair, which seemed, from the fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. The letter was a mournful congratulation on his supposed marriage with a lady in England, written at some former period; it wished him every happiness, and contained no one reproach. The broach consisted of a heart’s ease, which she entreated him sometimes to wear in remembrance of one, who had loved him truly. “Heart’s ease to you—mais triste pensée pour moi,” was engraved upon it. “You must yourself deliver these,” said Mac Allain looking wistfully at Calantha. She promised to do so.Mac Allain then drew forth a larger packet which was addressed to himself. “I have not yet read it,” he said, “I am not able to see for my tears; but it is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and when I have ended it, I will give it to you, my dear lady, and to any otherwhom you may wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of gratitude and affection which you profess, and have shewn our family, do not let any one read this but myself:—do not betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels your sufferings: he more than shares them. For my sake I ask you this. Keep this transaction secret; and, whatever may be suspected, let none know the truth.—Say: may I ask it?”Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. He wept in bitter anguish. “The destroyer of my child,” he said, “will lead my benefactress into misery. Ah! my dear young lady, how my heart bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she turned away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” she said. “You may command; but the news of my child’s death is spread: many are talking of it already: I cannot keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord Glenarvon’s name appear.” Mac Allain promised to do all in his power to silenceevery rumour; and, with the help of O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. The story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan first had carried her with him to England, where she had fallen into poverty and vice. No further enquiry was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself confided to many, the secret which Calantha was so eager to conceal.The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may be omitted by those who wish not to peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to read it when Calantha had ended it. He also took the broach, and pressing it to his lips, appeared very deeply affected. After this, for a short time he absented himself from the castle. The following pages, written by Alice, were addressed to her only surviving parent. No comment is made on them; no apology offered for their insertion. If passion has once subdued the power of reason, the misery and example of others never avails, evenwere we certain of a similar fate. If every calamity we may perhaps deserve, were placed in view before us, we should not pause—we should not avert our steps. To love, in defiance of virtue is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the safety of its victims, were a generous but useless effort of unavailable interference. It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s fury—far beyond human aid to quell. Calantha read, however, the history of her friend, and wept her fate.ALICE’S NARRATIVE.“My dear and honoured father,“To you I venture to address this short history of my unhappy life, and if sufferings and pain can in part atone for my misconduct, I surely shall be forgiven by you; but never, while existence, however miserable, is prolonged, never shall I forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the rumour of my disgrace has reached you,and added still severer pangs to those you before endured. But oh! my father, I have, in part, expiated my offences. Long and severe sorrows have followed me, since I left your roof, and none more heart rending—oh! none to compare with the agony of being abandoned by him, for whom I left so much. You remember, my dear father, that, during the last year, which I passed at the castle, the attention which Mr. Buchanan had paid me, was so marked, that it occasioned the most serious apprehensions in Lady Margaret, on his account. Alas! I concealed from every one, the true cause of my encreasing melancholy; and felt happy that the suspicions of my friends and protectors were thus unintentionally misled. I parted with Linden, nor told him my secret. I suffered the severest menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; for I knew myself guilty, though not of the crime with which I was charged. At Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means tomake my escape, or rather, the mad attachment of one far above me, removed every obstacle, which opposed his wishes and my own.“But it is time more particularly to acquaint you, my dear father, by what accident I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to whom my fate was linked—whose attachment once made me blessed—whose inconstancy has deprived me of every earthly hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained leave to pass the day with you, that my brother, Garlace, took me with him in his boat, down the river Allan, and Roy and yourself were talking eagerly of the late affray which had taken place in our village. I then pointed out to you the ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you the history of its unhappy owners. My father, that evening, when yourself and Roy were gone on shore, my brother Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me down the current with the wind: and as we passed near the banks from behindthe rocks, we heard soft low notes, such as they say spirits sing over the dead; and as we turned by the winding shore, we soon perceived a youth who was throwing pebbles into the stream, and ever whilst he threw them, he continued singing in that soft, sweet manner I have said. He spoke with us, and the melancholy sound of his voice, attracted us towards him. We landed close by the place near which he stood. He accompanied us to the front of the castle; but then entreating us to excuse his proceeding further, he retired; nor told us who he was. From that day, I met him in secret. Oh! that I had died before I had met with one so young, so beautiful, but yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save him: my feeble help could not reclaim him: it was like one who clasped a drowning man, and fell with him in the struggle: he had cast sin and misery upon his soul. Never will I soil these pages with the record of what he uttered;his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; and soon, most soon shall I perish with them....”Calantha paused in the narrative; she gasped for breath; and wiping away the tears which struggled in her eyes: “If he treated my friend with unkindness,” she said, “dear as he has hitherto been to me, I will never behold him more.” She then proceeded.“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I am sick at heart. The rest of my story is but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles of guilty love, is but adding to the crime already committed. I accuse him of no arts to allure: he did but follow the impulse of his feelings: he sought to save—he would have spared me: but he had not strength. O my father, you know Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, all that the most grateful enthusiasm could feel; and for the sake of the son whom he restored to you, you must forgive him the ruin of an ungrateful child, whorushed forward herself to meet it. Unused to disguise my sentiments, I did not attempt even to conceal them from him; and when he told me I was dear, I too soon shewed him, how much more so he was to me. For when the moment of parting forever came, when I saw my Lord, as I thought, for the last time, you must not judge me—you cannot even in fancy imagine, all I at that hour endured—I left my country, my home—I gave up every hope on earth or heaven for him. Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have suffered cruelly; and you, my father, when you read these pages, bless me, forgive me. Turn not from me, for you know not the struggles of my heart—you can never know what I have endured.”Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; and paused again. She paced to and fro within her chamber, in strong agitation of mind. She then eagerly returned to peruse the few remaining pages,written by her miserable, her infatuated friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. “The God of Heaven will not, does not condemn her. Oh she was spotless as innocence compared with me.”“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him; nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom. Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother of a child, and Clare,my little son, was dear to his father. But after his birth, he forsook me.“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends, when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not. Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,”I said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his arms....“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helplessoutcast, in my own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every thing, every thing was refused me....“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains! by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp ofagony, I clasped the boy to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more....“Linden had heard of my disgrace andmisery; he had written to me, but he knew not where I was....“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St. Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare too; but I never saw Glenarvon....“From my miserable Lodging, Cork,Thursday Night.“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I have lost every thing.“Sunday.“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me; but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if I seehim—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd....“Tuesday Night, Belfont.“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form, he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it could not be:—hedid not know me; and I will see him again. If he will but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write. They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin, I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale. They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see him again....”And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and shewas buried in the church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave, and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and wild-goats, might not destroy it.“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need you thus confess them? andwhatever your feelings, wherefore betray them to the senseless crowd?“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all; but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know, that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by thevery exhibition of your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied. Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue. The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware! and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is, what he has done. He is....”“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened, and he entered.He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed, durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs. Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him; and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence were prolonged,to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me.“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud. “Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,” said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly. “She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret,“She goes with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.”“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity; for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a protecting tone, “are you not vain?”“This Glenarvon has been the lover of many hundreds; to be thus preferred is flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what consists your superiority? You are not as fair as these; you are not perhaps as chaste; but you are loved more because your ruin will make the misery of a whole family, and your disgrace will cast a shade upon the only man whom Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior to himself—superior both in mind and person. This, child, is your potent charm—your sole claim to his admiration. Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, point out to him an object more worth the trouble and pain of rendering more miserable and he will immediately abandon you.”Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon Lady Margaret. The disdain of that glance silenced her, she even came forward with a view to conciliate: and affecting an air of playful humility—“I spoke but from mere jealousy,” she said. “What woman of my age could bear tosee another so praised, so worshipped in her presence. It is as if the future heir of his kingdom were extolled in presence of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, Glenarvon. I know, I see you love her.” “By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried exultingly, “with what furious rage the little tygress gazes on you. She will harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, “if I do not carry her from your presence. Come then Calantha:weshall meet again,” he said, turning back and pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s apartment. The tone of his voice, and his look, as he said this were peculiar: nor did he for some moments regain his composure.Lady Margaret spoke a few words to Calantha that evening. “I am in the power of this man,” she said, “and you soon will be. He is cold, hard and cruel. Do any thing: but, if you have one regard for yourself, go not with him.” “I know his history, his errors,” said Calantha;“but he feels deeply.” “You know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a look of scornful superiority, “as he wishes you to believe him. He even may exaggerate, were that possible, his crimes, the more to interest and surprise. You know him, Calantha, as one infatuated and madly in love can imagine the idol of its devotion. But there will come a time when you will draw his character with darker shades, and taking from it all the romance and mystery of guilt, see him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, which the light of genius, self-love and passion, have warmed at intervals; but which, in all the detail of every-day life, sinks into hypocrisy and baseness. Crimes have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, even by noble minds, but Glenarvon is little, contemptible and mean. He unites the malice and petty vices of a woman, to the perfidy and villany of a man. You do not know him as I do.”“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignationburning in her bosom, “we never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange one word with each other. I renounce you entirely; and think you all that you have dared to say against my loved, my adored Glenarvon.”Lady Margaret sought Calantha before she retired for the night, and laughed at her for her conduct. “Your rage, your absurdity but excite my contempt. Calantha, how puerile this violence appears to me; above all, how useless. Now from the earliest day of my remembrance can any one say of me that they beheld me forgetful of my own dignity from the violence of my passions. Yet I feel, think you not, and have made others feel. Your childish petulance but operates against yourself. What are threats, blows and mighty words from a woman. When I am offended, I smile; and when I stab deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven. Your friends talk of you with kindness or unkindness as it suits theirfancy: some love; some pity, but none fear Calantha. Your very servants, though you boast of their attachment, despise and laugh at you. Your husband caresses you as a mistress, but of your conduct he takes not even heed. What is the affection of the crowd? what the love of man? make yourself feared! Then, if you are not esteemed, at least you are outwardly honoured, and that reserve, that self-controul, which you never sought even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in alarm. Many hate me; but who dares even name me without respect. Yourself, Calantha, even at this moment, are ready to fall upon my bosom and weep, because I have offended you. Come child—your hand. I fain would save you, but you must hear much that pains you, before I can hope even to succeed. Only remember: ‘si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous mangera.’” She smiled as she said this, and Calantha, half offended, gave her the hand for which she solicited.
When Lady Avondale awoke from her slumbers she found the whole castle in a state of confusion. Lady Margaret had twice sent for her. Every one was occupied with this extraordinary event. Her name, and Lord Glenarvon’s were mentioned together, and conjectures, concerning the whole scene, were made by every individual.
At Gerald Mac Allain’s earnest entreaties, the body of Alice was conveyed to his own house, near the Garden Cottage. He wished no one to be informed of the particulars of her melancholy fate. He came, however, a few days after her removal, to ask for Calantha. She was ill; but mediately admitted him. They talked together upon all that had occurred. He gave her a letter, and a broach, whichhad been found upon the body. It was addressed to Lord Glenarvon. There was also a lock of hair, which seemed, from the fineness of its texture, to belong to a child. The letter was a mournful congratulation on his supposed marriage with a lady in England, written at some former period; it wished him every happiness, and contained no one reproach. The broach consisted of a heart’s ease, which she entreated him sometimes to wear in remembrance of one, who had loved him truly. “Heart’s ease to you—mais triste pensée pour moi,” was engraved upon it. “You must yourself deliver these,” said Mac Allain looking wistfully at Calantha. She promised to do so.
Mac Allain then drew forth a larger packet which was addressed to himself. “I have not yet read it,” he said, “I am not able to see for my tears; but it is the narration of my child’s sorrows; and when I have ended it, I will give it to you, my dear lady, and to any otherwhom you may wish.” “Oh Mac Allain!” said Lady Avondale, “by every tie of gratitude and affection which you profess, and have shewn our family, do not let any one read this but myself:—do not betray Lord Glenarvon. He feels your sufferings: he more than shares them. For my sake I ask you this. Keep this transaction secret; and, whatever may be suspected, let none know the truth.—Say: may I ask it?”
Calantha’s agitation moved him greatly. He wept in bitter anguish. “The destroyer of my child,” he said, “will lead my benefactress into misery. Ah! my dear young lady, how my heart bleeds for you.” Impatiently, she turned away. “Will you hear my entreaties,” she said. “You may command; but the news of my child’s death is spread: many are talking of it already: I cannot keep it secret.” “Only let not Lord Glenarvon’s name appear.” Mac Allain promised to do all in his power to silenceevery rumour; and, with the help of O’Kelly, he, in some measure succeeded. The story believed was, that Mr. Buchanan first had carried her with him to England, where she had fallen into poverty and vice. No further enquiry was made; but Lord Glenarvon himself confided to many, the secret which Calantha was so eager to conceal.
The narrative of Alice’s sufferings may be omitted by those who wish not to peruse it. Lord Glenarvon desired to read it when Calantha had ended it. He also took the broach, and pressing it to his lips, appeared very deeply affected. After this, for a short time he absented himself from the castle. The following pages, written by Alice, were addressed to her only surviving parent. No comment is made on them; no apology offered for their insertion. If passion has once subdued the power of reason, the misery and example of others never avails, evenwere we certain of a similar fate. If every calamity we may perhaps deserve, were placed in view before us, we should not pause—we should not avert our steps. To love, in defiance of virtue is insanity, not guilt. To attempt the safety of its victims, were a generous but useless effort of unavailable interference. It is like a raging fever, or the tempest’s fury—far beyond human aid to quell. Calantha read, however, the history of her friend, and wept her fate.
“My dear and honoured father,
“To you I venture to address this short history of my unhappy life, and if sufferings and pain can in part atone for my misconduct, I surely shall be forgiven by you; but never, while existence, however miserable, is prolonged, never shall I forgive myself. Perhaps even now, the rumour of my disgrace has reached you,and added still severer pangs to those you before endured. But oh! my father, I have, in part, expiated my offences. Long and severe sorrows have followed me, since I left your roof, and none more heart rending—oh! none to compare with the agony of being abandoned by him, for whom I left so much. You remember, my dear father, that, during the last year, which I passed at the castle, the attention which Mr. Buchanan had paid me, was so marked, that it occasioned the most serious apprehensions in Lady Margaret, on his account. Alas! I concealed from every one, the true cause of my encreasing melancholy; and felt happy that the suspicions of my friends and protectors were thus unintentionally misled. I parted with Linden, nor told him my secret. I suffered the severest menaces and reproofs, without a murmur; for I knew myself guilty, though not of the crime with which I was charged. At Sir Everard St. Clare’s I found means tomake my escape, or rather, the mad attachment of one far above me, removed every obstacle, which opposed his wishes and my own.
“But it is time more particularly to acquaint you, my dear father, by what accident I first met with Lord Glenarvon, to whom my fate was linked—whose attachment once made me blessed—whose inconstancy has deprived me of every earthly hope. Do you remember once, when I obtained leave to pass the day with you, that my brother, Garlace, took me with him in his boat, down the river Allan, and Roy and yourself were talking eagerly of the late affray which had taken place in our village. I then pointed out to you the ruins of St. Alvin’s Priory, and asked you the history of its unhappy owners. My father, that evening, when yourself and Roy were gone on shore, my brother Garlace fixing the sail, returned with me down the current with the wind: and as we passed near the banks from behindthe rocks, we heard soft low notes, such as they say spirits sing over the dead; and as we turned by the winding shore, we soon perceived a youth who was throwing pebbles into the stream, and ever whilst he threw them, he continued singing in that soft, sweet manner I have said. He spoke with us, and the melancholy sound of his voice, attracted us towards him. We landed close by the place near which he stood. He accompanied us to the front of the castle; but then entreating us to excuse his proceeding further, he retired; nor told us who he was. From that day, I met him in secret. Oh! that I had died before I had met with one so young, so beautiful, but yet so utterly lost. Nothing could save him: my feeble help could not reclaim him: it was like one who clasped a drowning man, and fell with him in the struggle: he had cast sin and misery upon his soul. Never will I soil these pages with the record of what he uttered;his secrets shall be buried as in a sepulchre; and soon, most soon shall I perish with them....”
Calantha paused in the narrative; she gasped for breath; and wiping away the tears which struggled in her eyes: “If he treated my friend with unkindness,” she said, “dear as he has hitherto been to me, I will never behold him more.” She then proceeded.
“All enjoyment of life has ceased:—I am sick at heart. The rest of my story is but a record of evil. To exhibit the struggles of guilty love, is but adding to the crime already committed. I accuse him of no arts to allure: he did but follow the impulse of his feelings: he sought to save—he would have spared me: but he had not strength. O my father, you know Lord Glenarvon—you have felt for him, all that the most grateful enthusiasm could feel; and for the sake of the son whom he restored to you, you must forgive him the ruin of an ungrateful child, whorushed forward herself to meet it. Unused to disguise my sentiments, I did not attempt even to conceal them from him; and when he told me I was dear, I too soon shewed him, how much more so he was to me. For when the moment of parting forever came, when I saw my Lord, as I thought, for the last time, you must not judge me—you cannot even in fancy imagine, all I at that hour endured—I left my country, my home—I gave up every hope on earth or heaven for him. Oh God in mercy pardon me, for I have suffered cruelly; and you, my father, when you read these pages, bless me, forgive me. Turn not from me, for you know not the struggles of my heart—you can never know what I have endured.”
Calantha breathed with greater difficulty; and paused again. She paced to and fro within her chamber, in strong agitation of mind. She then eagerly returned to peruse the few remaining pages,written by her miserable, her infatuated friend.—“She was not guilty,” she cried. “The God of Heaven will not, does not condemn her. Oh she was spotless as innocence compared with me.”
“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him; nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom. Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother of a child, and Clare,my little son, was dear to his father. But after his birth, he forsook me.
“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends, when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not. Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,”I said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his arms....
“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helplessoutcast, in my own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every thing, every thing was refused me....
“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains! by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp ofagony, I clasped the boy to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more....
“Linden had heard of my disgrace andmisery; he had written to me, but he knew not where I was....
“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St. Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare too; but I never saw Glenarvon....
“From my miserable Lodging, Cork,Thursday Night.
“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I have lost every thing.
“Sunday.
“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me; but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if I seehim—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd....
“Tuesday Night, Belfont.
“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form, he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it could not be:—hedid not know me; and I will see him again. If he will but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write. They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin, I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale. They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see him again....”
And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and shewas buried in the church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave, and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and wild-goats, might not destroy it.
“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need you thus confess them? andwhatever your feelings, wherefore betray them to the senseless crowd?
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all; but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know, that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by thevery exhibition of your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied. Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue. The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware! and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is, what he has done. He is....”
“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened, and he entered.He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed, durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs. Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him; and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence were prolonged,to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me.
“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud. “Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,” said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly. “She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret,“She goes with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.”
“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity; for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a protecting tone, “are you not vain?”“This Glenarvon has been the lover of many hundreds; to be thus preferred is flattering. Shall I tell you, my dear niece, in what consists your superiority? You are not as fair as these; you are not perhaps as chaste; but you are loved more because your ruin will make the misery of a whole family, and your disgrace will cast a shade upon the only man whom Glenarvon ever acknowledged as superior to himself—superior both in mind and person. This, child, is your potent charm—your sole claim to his admiration. Shew him some crime of greater magnitude, point out to him an object more worth the trouble and pain of rendering more miserable and he will immediately abandon you.”
Glenarvon cast his eyes fiercely upon Lady Margaret. The disdain of that glance silenced her, she even came forward with a view to conciliate: and affecting an air of playful humility—“I spoke but from mere jealousy,” she said. “What woman of my age could bear tosee another so praised, so worshipped in her presence. It is as if the future heir of his kingdom were extolled in presence of the reigning sovereign. Pardon me, Glenarvon. I know, I see you love her.” “By my soul I do;” “and look,” he cried exultingly, “with what furious rage the little tygress gazes on you. She will harm you. I fear,” he continued laughing, “if I do not carry her from your presence. Come then Calantha:weshall meet again,” he said, turning back and pausing as they quitted Lady Margaret’s apartment. The tone of his voice, and his look, as he said this were peculiar: nor did he for some moments regain his composure.
Lady Margaret spoke a few words to Calantha that evening. “I am in the power of this man,” she said, “and you soon will be. He is cold, hard and cruel. Do any thing: but, if you have one regard for yourself, go not with him.” “I know his history, his errors,” said Calantha;“but he feels deeply.” “You know him,” said Lady Margaret, with a look of scornful superiority, “as he wishes you to believe him. He even may exaggerate, were that possible, his crimes, the more to interest and surprise. You know him, Calantha, as one infatuated and madly in love can imagine the idol of its devotion. But there will come a time when you will draw his character with darker shades, and taking from it all the romance and mystery of guilt, see him, as I do, a cold malignant heart, which the light of genius, self-love and passion, have warmed at intervals; but which, in all the detail of every-day life, sinks into hypocrisy and baseness. Crimes have been perpetrated in the heat of passion, even by noble minds, but Glenarvon is little, contemptible and mean. He unites the malice and petty vices of a woman, to the perfidy and villany of a man. You do not know him as I do.”
“From this hour,” said Calantha, indignationburning in her bosom, “we never more, Lady Margaret, will interchange one word with each other. I renounce you entirely; and think you all that you have dared to say against my loved, my adored Glenarvon.”
Lady Margaret sought Calantha before she retired for the night, and laughed at her for her conduct. “Your rage, your absurdity but excite my contempt. Calantha, how puerile this violence appears to me; above all, how useless. Now from the earliest day of my remembrance can any one say of me that they beheld me forgetful of my own dignity from the violence of my passions. Yet I feel, think you not, and have made others feel. Your childish petulance but operates against yourself. What are threats, blows and mighty words from a woman. When I am offended, I smile; and when I stab deepest, then I can look as if I had forgiven. Your friends talk of you with kindness or unkindness as it suits theirfancy: some love; some pity, but none fear Calantha. Your very servants, though you boast of their attachment, despise and laugh at you. Your husband caresses you as a mistress, but of your conduct he takes not even heed. What is the affection of the crowd? what the love of man? make yourself feared! Then, if you are not esteemed, at least you are outwardly honoured, and that reserve, that self-controul, which you never sought even to obtain, keeps ordinary minds in alarm. Many hate me; but who dares even name me without respect. Yourself, Calantha, even at this moment, are ready to fall upon my bosom and weep, because I have offended you. Come child—your hand. I fain would save you, but you must hear much that pains you, before I can hope even to succeed. Only remember: ‘si vous vous faites brebi le loup vous mangera.’” She smiled as she said this, and Calantha, half offended, gave her the hand for which she solicited.