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 to take 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 myself away 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, turning to 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. “I shall 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.
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, which had 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.