“I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me; but he fled when I followed.... Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if I see him—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask. I am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd....
“Tuesday Night, Belfont.
“I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweetest voice, and I can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form, he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it could not be:—he did not know me; and I will see him again. If he will but say, “Alice: God bless you,” I shall die satisfied.—And if my child still lives, and comes again to you, so cold, so pale—take him to your heart, dear father, and forgive his mother—I am ill, and cannot write. They watch me; my pencil is almost worn out, and they will give me no other.—I have one favor to ask, and it is this:—when I came to Dublin, I gave all the money I had to buy this broach—take it to Lady Avondale. They say she is very good, and perhaps, when she hears how ill I am, she will pardon my faults, and give it for me to Lord Glenarvon.—I shall wait for him every day in the same wood, and who knows, but I may see him again....”
And Alice did see him again;—and she did kneel to him;—and she received from his hands the relief he thought she craved;—and the unexpected kindness broke her heart.—She died;——and she was buried in the church near Belfont. There was a white stone placed upon her grave, and her old father went daily there and wept; and he had the tree that now grows there planted; and it was railed around, that the cattle and wild-goats, might not destroy it.
“Take the band from my head,” said Calantha. “Give me air. This kills me....” She visited the grave of Alice: she met Mac Allain returning from it, they uttered not one word as they passed each other. The silence was more terrible than a thousand lamentations.... Lady Margaret sent for Calantha. She looked ill, and was much agitated. “It is time,” said Lady Margaret, to speak to you. “The folly of your conduct,”—“Oh it is past folly,” said Calantha weeping. Lady Margaret looked upon her with contempt. “How weak, and how absurd is this. Whatever your errors, need you thus confess them? and whatever your feelings, wherefore betray them to the senseless crowd?
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret in a hollow tone, “I can feel as deeply as yourself. Nature implanted passions in me, which are not common to all; but mark the difference between us:—a strong mind dares at least conceal the ravages the tempest of its fury makes. It assumes that character to the vulgar herd which it knows is alone capable of imposing restraint upon it. Every one suspects me, but none dare reproach me. You on the contrary, are the butt against which every censure is levelled: they know, that your easy nature can pardon malignity, and the hand that insults you to-day will crave your kindness to-morrow. When you are offended, with puerile impotence and passionate violence, you exhibit the effects of your momentary rage; and by breaking of tables, or by idle words, shew your own weakness. Thus you are ever subdued by the very exhibition of your passions. And now that you love, instead of rendering him you love your captive, you throw yourself entirely in his power, and will deeply rue the confidence you have shewn. Has he not already betrayed you. You know not Glenarvon. His heart, black as it is, I have read and studied. Whatever his imagination idolizes, becomes with him a sole and entire interest. At this moment, he would fly with you to the extremity of the earth, and when he awakes from his dream, he will laugh at you, and at himself for his absurdity. Trust not that malignant and venomed tongue. The adder that slumbers in the bosom of him who saved it, recovers, and bites to the heart the fool that trusted it. Warned on all sides, beware! and if nothing else can save you, learn at least who this Glenarvon is, what he has done. He is....”
“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened, and he entered. He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed, durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs. Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him; and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence were prolonged, to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me.
“None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud. “Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,” said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly. “She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, “She goes with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.”
“She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity; for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”