Chapter 3

Belfont Abbey and St. Alvin’s ruined Priory appeared in view. The ivy
climbed around the turrets; and the grass grew upon the paved courts,
where desolation and long neglect prevailed. At a distance from the
convent, a ruin, a lonely pile stood upon the cliff in solitary grandeur.
Not a tree, nor any appearance of cultivation was seen around: barren
moors, the distant mountains, and the vast ocean, every where filled
the eye. The servants rang at the bell of the outer gate: it resounded
through the vaulted passages with a long repeated echo.—A boy immediately
answered the summons: with a look of stupid astonishment, he waited in
expectation of their commands.

Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they might see the Priory. “I suppose
so,” was his reply. And without further preamble, they alighted. “It
must be rather melancholy to live here during the winter months,” said
Calantha to the boy, as she passed him. “And summer too,” he answered.
“We are told,” said Frances, “that this Priory is haunted by ghosts:
have you ever seen any?” He shook his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’
please your honour,” he said; “but I never meddle with them, so they
never comes after me as I see.” “Are you going to shew us the house?”
cried Sir Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do you keep us waiting in
this dark passage? go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding towards
an inner apartment, knocked at the door, calling to the housekeeper, and
telling her that there was company below who wished to take the round
of the castle. The old dame courtesying low in a mysterious manner led
the way: the boy immediately retreated.

Calantha was much tired; her spirits had undergone a severe shock; and
the sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was still called, made an
impression upon her she scarcely could account for. The gaiety of the
dresses, the fineness of the evening, the chorus of voices laughing and
singing as they marched along, indifferent apparently to their future
fate—perhaps hardened and insensible to it—all made an impression which
it is impossible the description of the scene can give; but long it
dwelt in her remembrance. Unused to check herself in any feeling, she
insisted upon remaining in front of the Castle, whilst the rest of the
party explored its secret mysteries and recesses. “I am sure you are
frightened,” said Lord Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have more cause
than we: it looks very gloomy without, as well as within.”

They went, and she remained upon the cliff, watching the calm sea, and
the boats at a distance, as they passed and repassed from the fair.
“And can a few short years thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, “was
St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? can one moment of error thus have
changed her? Oh it is not possible. Long before the opportunity for evil
presented itself, her uncontrouled passions must have misled her, and
her imagination, wild and lawless, must have depraved her heart. Alice
was innocent: he who first seduced her from peace, deceived her; but
St. Clara was not of this character. I understand—I think I understand
the feelings which impelled her to evil. Her image haunts me. I tremble
with apprehension. Something within seems to warn me, and to say that,
if I wander from virtue like her, nothing will check my course—all
the barriers, that others fear to overstep, are nothing before me.
God preserve me from sin! the sight of St. Clara fills me with alarm.
Avondale, where art thou? save me. My course is but just begun: who
knows whither the path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned will, has
been hitherto, my only law.”

Upon the air at that moment she heard the soft notes of a flute. She
listened attentively:—it ceased. There are times when the spirit is
troubled—when the mind, after the tumult of dissipated and active life,
requires rest and seeks to be alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us so
fast, that we hardly know how to bear them; conscience reflects upon
every former action; and the heart within trembles, as if in dread of
approaching evil. The scene around was calculated to inspire every serious
reflection. The awful majesty of the ruined building, ill accorded with
the loud laugh and the jests of the merry party now entering its walls.
Once those walls had been, perhaps inhabited by beings thoughtless and
gay. Where were they now? had they memory of the past? knowledge of the
present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes?
how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of
any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible,
be worth either solicitude or anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” said
Calantha to herself. “Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves;
let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the
dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations,
are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only
real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love.”

So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I
was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that
is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... Whilst yet indulging these
fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western turret, and watching the
shadows as they varied on the walls, she again heard the soft notes of
music. It seemed like the strains of other times, awakening in the heart
remembrances of some former state long passed and changed. Hope, love
and fond regret, answered alternately to the call. It was in the season
of the year when the flowers bloomed: it was on a spot immortalized in
ancient story, for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha turned her
eyes upwards and beheld the blue vault of heaven without a cloud. The
sea was of that glossy transparency—that shining brightness, the air of
that serene calm that, had it been during the wintry months, some might
have thought the halcyon was watching upon her nest, and breathing her
soft and melancholy minstrelsy through the air.

Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. She felt as if in a dream, and,
hastily advancing to the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, she
there beheld a youth, for he had not the form or the look of manhood,
leaning against the trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon a flute,
or breathing, as if from a suffering heart, the sweet melody of his
untaught song. He started not when she approached:—he neither saw nor
heard her—so light was her airy step, so fixed were his eyes and thoughts.
She gazed for one moment upon his countenance—she marked it. It was one
of those faces which, having once beheld, we never afterwards forget. It
seemed as if the soul of passion had been stamped and printed upon every
feature. The eye beamed into life as it threw up its dark ardent gaze,
with a look nearly of inspiration, while the proud curl of the upper lip
expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet, even mixed with these
fierce characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy and dejection shaded
and softened every harsher expression. Such a countenance spoke to the
heart, and filled it with one vague yet powerful interest—so strong, so
undefinable, that it could not easily be overcome.

Calantha felt the power, not then alone, but evermore. She felt the
empire, the charm, the peculiar charm, those features—that being must
have for her. She could have knelt and prayed to heaven to realize the
dreams, to bless the fallen angel in whose presence she at that moment
stood, to give peace to that soul, upon which was plainly stamped the
heavenly image of sensibility and genius. The air he had played was wild
and plaintive: he changed it to one more harsh. She now distinctly heard
the words he sung:

This heart has never stoop’d its pride
To slavish love, or woman’s wile;
But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d
Her craftiest art and brightest smile.

This mind has trac’d its own career,
Nor follow’d blind, where others trod;
Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear,
E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God.

Then hope not now to touch with love,
Or in its chains a heart to draw,
All earthly spells have fail’d to move;
And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe:

A heart, that like some mountain vast,
And cold with never-melting snow,
Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast
A look away on aught below.

An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself,
had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different
feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till
she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been
left by her companions.

While yet dwelling in thought upon the singular being she had one moment
beheld—whilst asking herself what meant this new, this strange emotion,
she found another personage by her side, and recognized, through a new
disguise, her morning’s acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, otherwise
called Cowdel O’Kelly. This rencontre gave an immediate turn to her
thoughts. She enquired of him if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey?
“No, madam,” he answered, “but of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him to
inform her, whether any one resided there who sung in the manner she
then described. “Sure, then, I sing myself in that manner,” said the
man, “if that’s all; and beside me, there be some who howl and wail, the
like you never heard. Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it must
have moved your heart to tears.”

“Explain yourself,” said Calantha eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is
the same I have seen and heard. Tell me what sorrows have befallen
him?” “Sorrows! why enough too, to plague any man. Has he not got the
distemper?” “The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did he not catch it sleeping
in our dog-kennel, as he stood petrified there one night, kilt by the
cold? When my Lord found him, he had not a house to his head then, it’s
my belief; but now indeed he’s got one, he’s no wiser, having, as I
think, no head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise you how he howls
and barks, whenever the moon shines bright. But here be those who fell
on me at the fair. In truth I believe they be searching for the like of
you.”