CHAPTER XXXVIII.The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited, the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone, informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see, at hearing good English spoken to you; but I amnot one who can talk all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes; and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will notbear with these proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.”“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here. Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he had not expected, left him, exclaiming as shewent, “you have driven me to this: tell them you have done it”....In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs. Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibitionevery place was searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success.Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;” sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse, first recovering.“Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept more audibly than before.“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all others of bitterness.The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware. Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she will yet return.”Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she entertained.“Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her, receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus. Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh! she is not there,” said the Duke.“She never will act in a manner we must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony around her.The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—allelse I can forgive.”
The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited, the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone, informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see, at hearing good English spoken to you; but I amnot one who can talk all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes; and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will notbear with these proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.”
“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here. Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he had not expected, left him, exclaiming as shewent, “you have driven me to this: tell them you have done it”....
In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs. Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibitionevery place was searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success.
Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;” sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse, first recovering.“Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept more audibly than before.
“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all others of bitterness.The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware. Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she will yet return.”
Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she entertained.“Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her, receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus. Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh! she is not there,” said the Duke.“She never will act in a manner we must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony around her.
The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—allelse I can forgive.”
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN,13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET.