All this time Calantha felt not grieved: Glenarvon had said he loved her: it was enough: his attachment was worth all else beside; and Lord Avondale’s increasing neglect and coldness steeled her heart against the crime of inconstancy.
Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity of speaking to her. “If you accept my friendship,” he said frowning, “I must be obeyed:—you will find me a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. If I once love, it is with fervor—with madness. I must have no trifling, no rivals. The being I worship must be pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, think not that it is to let others approach her. No, Lady Avondale; not even what appears most innocent to you, shall be endured by me. I shall be jealous of every look, word, thought. There must be no shaking of hands, no wearing of chains but such as I bestow, and you must write all you think and feel without reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if you have the power; but if you remain, you already know your fate.”
Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt the necessity. To-morrow, she said, she would go. That to-morrow came, and she had not strength. Glenarvon wrote constantly: she replied with the same openness. “Your letters chill me,” he said, “call me your friend, your lover: call me Glenarvon—Clarence if you will. All these forms, these regulations are odious amongst those who are attached. Say that you love, beloved Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; for I see it, and know it. There is no greater crime in writing it than in feeling it.” Calantha said it too soon—too soon she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my friend, my comforter:” such were the terms she used. Shame to the pen, the hand that dared to trace them. Days, and days passed, and soon Glenarvon was all on earth to her; and the love he felt or feigned, the only hope and happiness of her existence.
CHAPTER XXI.
Lord Avondale now looked more and more coldly on Calantha; but all others courted and flattered her. The Princess and many others had departed. Mrs. Seymour alone appeared to watch her with anxiety. In vain Calantha affected the most thoughtless gaiety: remorse and suspense alternately agitated her mind. One evening she observed Lord Glenarvon and her aunt, Mrs. Seymour, in earnest discourse—she knew not then that she herself was the subject. “She is pure, she is innocent,” said Mrs. Seymour: “her spirits wild and thoughtless, may have led her into a thousand follies; but worse, never—never.”—“Fierce passion burns in her eye,” said Glenarvon, scornfully: “the colour in her cheeks varies.—I love her as well as you can,” he continued, laughing; “but do you think she does not love me a little in return?”—“Oh! even in jest, do not talk thus of Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour: “you alarm me.”—“There is no occasion,” replied Glenarvon: “calm yourself. I only said, that were I to attempt it I could succeed; she should be ready to leave you, and Lord Avondale, her dear husband and her babes, and her retinue, and all else; and I could make her follow me as St. Clara did: aye verily; but, in truth, I will not.” Mrs. Seymour was angry; she coloured; she was hurt. “You could not,” she replied with warmth. “O I know her well, and know you could not. Whatever her faults, she is so pure, so chaste even in thought.”—“She loves me.”—“It is false” said Mrs. Seymour, still more eagerly. “Even if she had any foolish romantic liking to another than her husband, Buchanan is the favourite”—“Buchanan!” said Lord Glenarvon with a sneer. “I will make her heart ache for this,” after which he retired.
Calantha knew not then one word of what had passed. The morning after she was informed by Mrs. Seymour that Lord Glenarvon was gone. “Gone! where?” she said rather in surprise, and agitated. “I know not,” replied Mrs. Seymour, coldly enough. “I conclude to Belfont: his uncle Lord de Ruthven is arrived there. But, indeed, I am glad he is gone:—you have not conducted yourself well. I, your aunt, have no doubt of you; but others, who know you less, Calantha, blame you more.”
A letter was now delivered to Mrs. Seymour: she opened it: it was from Glenarvon; she was dreadfully agitated upon reading it. It contained these words:—“As you seem to doubt the confidence and attachment with which your niece, the Countess of Avondale, has honoured me, I enclose you one of her own letters, that you may see my vanity alone did not authorise me in the conclusion that she was attached to me. Her duplicity to me can scarcely justify the means I take of opening an aunt’s eyes; but the peculiar circumstances of my situation will, I hope, excuse it.
“Your most obedient servant,
“Glenarvon.”
This letter enclosed one of Lady Avondale’s—one which, however, she had not blushed to write. She read it with terror when Mrs. Seymour placed it in her hands. Cruel Glenarvon! could he have the heart thus to betray me—to my own aunt too. Oh! had that aunt been less indulgent, less kind, what had been my fate?