Those who have given way to the violence of any uncontrouled passion, know that during its influence all other considerations vanish. It is of little use to upbraid or admonish the victim who pursues his course: the fires that goad him on to his ruin, prevent his return. A kind word, an endearing smile, may excite one contrite tear; but he never pauses to reflect, or turns his eyes from the object of his pursuit. In vain the cold looks of an offended world, the heavy censures, and the pointed, bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. Misfortunes, poverty, pain, even to the rack, are nothing if he obtain his view. It is a madness that falls upon the brain and heart. All is at stake for that one throw; and he who dares all, is desperate, and cannot fear. It was phrenzy, not love, that raged in Calantha’s bosom.
To the prayers of a heart-broken parent, Lady Avondale opposed the agonizing threats of a distempered mind. “I will leave you all, if you take him from me. On earth there is nothing left me but Glenarvon.—Oh name not virtue and religion to me.—What are its hopes, its promises, if I lose him.” The fever of her mind was such, that she could not for one hour rest: he saw the dreadful power he had gained, and he lost no opportunity of encreasing it. Ah did he share it? In language the sweetest, and the most persuasive, he worked upon her passions, till he inflamed them beyond endurance.
“This, this is sin,” he cried, as he held her to his bosom, and breathed vows of ardent, burning love. “This is what moralists rail at, and account degrading. Now tell them, Calantha, thou who didst affect to be so pure—so chaste, whether the human heart can resist it? Religion bids thee fly me,” he cried: “every hope of heaven and hereafter warns thee from my bosom. Glenarvon is the hell thou art to shun:—this is the hour of trial. Christians must resist. Calantha arise, and fly me; leave me alone, as before I found thee. Desert me, and thy father and relations shall bless thee for the sacrifice: and thy God, who redeemed thee, shall mark thee for his own.” With bitter taunts he smiled as he thus spoke: then clasping her nearer to his heart, “Tell both priests and parents,” he said exultingly, “that one kiss from the lips of those we love, is dearer than every future hope.”
All day,—every hour in the day,—every instant of passing time Glenarvon thought but of Calantha. It was not love, it was distraction. When near him, she felt ecstacy; but if separated, though but for one moment, she was sullen and desponding. At night she seldom slept; a burning fever quickened every pulse: the heart beat as if with approaching dissolution,—delirium fell upon her brain. No longer innocent, her fancy painted but visions of love; and to be his alone, was all she now wished for, or desired on earth. He felt, he saw, that the peace of her mind, her life itself were gone for ever, and he rejoiced in the thought.
CHAPTER XXVII.
One night, as she retired to her room, Gondimar met her in the passage, leading from Mrs. Seymour’s apartment. “Lost woman,” he cried, fiercely seizing her, “you know not what you love;—look to his hand, there is blood on it!...” That night was a horrid night to Calantha; she slept, and the dream that oppressed her, left her feeble and disordered. The ensuing day she walked by the shores of the sea: she bared her forehead to the balmy gales. She looked upon every cheerful countenance in hopes of imbibing happiness from the smile that brightened theirs, but it was vain.
Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. They walked together to the mountains; they conversed; and half in jest she asked him for his hand,—“not that hand,” she said, “give me your right hand: I wish to look upon it.” “I believe I must refuse you, your manner is so strange,” he replied. “Do if you please, for the reason I wish to see it is more so. It was a dream, a horrid dream, which made me ill last night. The effect, perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” “I should like to hear it. Are you superstitious?” “No; but there are visions unlike all others, that impress us deeply, and this was one. I almost fear to tell it you.” “I too have dreamt,” said he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought only to my fancy, the dearest wishes of my heart. Oh would to God that I might live to realize a dream like that, which blest me yesternight. Shall I repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad for it; but mine, if indeed you wish it, you may hear.”
“I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat it) that I was in some far distant country. I was standing by the sea, and the fresh air blew gently upon me, even as it does now; but ... it was night. There was a dirge sung as in monasteries, and friars passed to and fro, in long procession before me. Their torches now and then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt was mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all this was confused.—That which was more striking, I remember better. A monk in black stood before me; and whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to a height unusual and monstrous: he seemed to possess some authority over me, and he questioned me as to my conduct and affections. I tried to disguise from him many thoughts which disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried manner of others; I named you not. He shook his head; and then looking fiercely at me, bade me beware of Clarence de Ruthven (for so he called you). I never can forget his voice. All others you may see, you may converse with; but, Calantha, beware,” he said, “of Clarence de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” “A what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. “I dare not continue.”
Glenarvon, however, insisted upon hearing this. “I never, never can tell,” said Calantha, “for you look so much offended—so serious.—After all, what nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” “That which seems to have made no little impression upon Lady Avondale’s mind, cannot fail of awakening some interest in mine. It is a very strange vision,” continued he, fixing his eyes on her. “These idle phantasies are but repetitions of the secret workings of the mind. Your own suspicions have coloured this. Go on, let me hear all.” “Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I seemed in my dream to doubt his words. Only this I remember:—he bade me ask you for your hand—your right hand; he said there was a stain of blood on it; and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he will not give it you; there is a mark upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I awoke.”
“To think me every thing however bad, that your monk may chuse to make me out. Well foolish dreamer, look at my hand: say, is there a mark on it?” The laugh which accompanied this question was forced. Calantha started back, as she again observed that almost demoniac smile. His eyes glared upon her with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks became pale; and over his forehead, an air of deep distress struggled with the violence of passion, till all again was calm, cold, and solemn, as before. She was surprised at his manner; for although he made light of it, he was certainly displeased, and much moved by this foolish occurrence.