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 other whom 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 silence every 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, even were 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 to make 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 behind the 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, who rushed 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.”