CHAPTER XXX.Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady Margaret entered, and informed her of this.She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands, and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaretwithout a word being uttered on her part, left the room.As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal, and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,” continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination, that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said, “to exceeding lowspirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father, an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it? Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart, that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale a noble choice? What quality is there,whether of person or of mind, in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge; but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child. No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or supportme; but on my knees here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to me: I am very miserable.”“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more; and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words? It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words, tremblingwith passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.—At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle. Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon, I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately. You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.”Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in themorning respecting her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length of time.Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where? How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh, you know not whathas passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there, Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power: do not lead me to infamy and ruin.”Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is it for such as you thatI have consented to live? How different from her I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.”
Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady Margaret entered, and informed her of this.
She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands, and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaretwithout a word being uttered on her part, left the room.
As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal, and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,” continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination, that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said, “to exceeding lowspirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father, an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it? Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart, that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale a noble choice? What quality is there,whether of person or of mind, in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge; but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child. No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or supportme; but on my knees here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to me: I am very miserable.”
“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more; and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words? It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words, tremblingwith passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.—
At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle. Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon, I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately. You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.”
Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in themorning respecting her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length of time.
Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where? How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh, you know not whathas passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there, Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power: do not lead me to infamy and ruin.”
Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is it for such as you thatI have consented to live? How different from her I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.”