CHAPTER XXXVII.Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with the children, if all continued tranquil inthose quarters. She spoke this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had been accustomed, that he could not but observe it.Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children, telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.” “He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “ClarenceGlenarvon,” replied the boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,” said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away. “Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross the rest of the day.Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle. It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred; but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her fromits consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved, without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance, she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained her one hour from Glenarvon.On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a nametoo horrible to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room; and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,” she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.” Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom, and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too, inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now must consider herself wholly unfit.But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s. “My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his mother.” Andshe stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no answer; but desired her maid to take itaway, and leave her. She did not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message, was in tears.Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from reflection; but it will overtake youwhen too late to recall the emotions of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true, how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder, then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent, it is not yet too late.”“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter: “it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with theagony of her passionate grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious, and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave.... These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony. Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.”The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge,to upbraid, villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain. She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.”“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not. “I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said. “I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and Godreward you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no: I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....” “Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate, or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother, at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said Mrs. Seymour.“I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.” “I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha.After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard, without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing thecompany, at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured; and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.”
Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with the children, if all continued tranquil inthose quarters. She spoke this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had been accustomed, that he could not but observe it.
Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children, telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.” “He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “ClarenceGlenarvon,” replied the boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,” said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away. “Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross the rest of the day.
Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle. It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred; but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her fromits consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved, without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance, she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained her one hour from Glenarvon.
On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a nametoo horrible to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room; and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,” she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.” Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom, and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too, inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now must consider herself wholly unfit.
But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s. “My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his mother.” Andshe stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no answer; but desired her maid to take itaway, and leave her. She did not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message, was in tears.
Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from reflection; but it will overtake youwhen too late to recall the emotions of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true, how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder, then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent, it is not yet too late.”
“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter: “it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with theagony of her passionate grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious, and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave.... These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony. Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.”
The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge,to upbraid, villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain. She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.”
“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not. “I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said. “I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and Godreward you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no: I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....” “Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate, or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother, at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said Mrs. Seymour.“I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.” “I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha.
After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard, without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing thecompany, at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured; and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.”