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.
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 her hands 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 money to 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 occasioned her 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.