CHAPTER LXXXIX.The letters from her father, Lady Avondale refused to read. Many remonstrances passed between herself and the duke’s servant. The result was a slow journey in the dark night, over a part of the country which was said to be infested by the marauders. No terror alarmed Lady Avondale, save that of losing a last, an only opportunity of once more seeing her husband—of throwing herself upon his mercy—of imploring him to return to his family, even though she were exiled from it. “Yet, I will not kneel to him, or ask it. If when he sees me, he has the heart to refuse me,” she cried, “I will only shew him my child; and if he can look upon it, and kill its mother, let him do it. I think in thatcase—yes, I do feel certain that I can encounter death, without a fear, or a murmur.”The carriage was at this time turning down a steep descent, when some horsemen gallopping past, bade them make way for Sir Richard Mowbrey. Calantha recognized the voice of the servant: it was the same who had occasioned her so much alarm at the inn near Baron Moor. But the nurse exclaimed in terror that it was one of the rebels: she knew him, she said, by his white uniform; and the presence alone of the admiral, in the duke’s carriage, convinced her of her mistake. “Thanks be to heaven,” cried she the moment she beheld him, “it is in rail earnest the old gentleman.” “Thanks be to heaven,” said Calantha, “he either did not recognize me, or cares not to prevent my journey.” “We’ll, if it isn’t himself,” said the nurse, “and the saints above only know why he rides for pleasure,this dismal night, over these murderous mountains; but at all events he is well guarded. Alack! we are friendless.”Lady Avondale sighed as the nurse in a tremulous voice ejaculated these observations; for the truth of the last remark gave it much weight. But little did she know at the moment, when the admiral passed, how entirely her fate depended on him.It was not till morning they arrived at Kelly Cross. “Bless my heart, how terrible you look. What’s the matter, sweet heart?” said the nurse as they alighted from the carriage.—“Look up, dear.—What is the matter?”—“Nurse, there is a pressure upon my brain, like an iron hand; and my eyes see nothing but dimness. Oh God! where am I! Send, oh nurse, send my aunt Seymour—Call my—my husband—tell Lord Avondale to come—is he still here?—There’s death on me: I feel it here—here.”—“Look up, sweet dear:—cheer yourself:—you’llbe better presently.” “Never more, nurse—never more. There is death on me, even as it came straight upon my mother. Oh God!”—“Where is the pain?” “It came like ice upon my heart, and my limbs feel chilled and numbed.—Avondale—Avondale.”Calantha was carried to a small room, and laid upon a bed. The waiter said that Lord Avondale was still at the inn. The nurse hastened to call him. He was surprised; but not displeased when he heard that Lady Avondale was arrived. He rushed towards her apartment. Sir Richard was with him. “By G—d, Avondale, if you forgive her, I will never see you more. Whilst I live, she shall never dwell in my house.” “Then mine shall shelter her,” said Lord Avondale, breaking from Sir Richard’s grasp: “this is too much;” and with an air of kindness, with a manner gentle and affectionate, Lord Avondale now entered, and approached his wife. “Calantha,”he said, “do not thus give way to the violence of your feelings. I wish not to appear stern.—My God! what is the matter?” “Your poor lady is dying,” said the nurse. “For the love of mercy, speak one gracious word to her.” “I will, I do,” said Lord Avondale, alarmed. “Calantha,” he whispered, without one reproach, “whatever have been your errors, turn here for shelter to a husband’s bosom. I will never leave you. Come here, thou lost one. Thou hast strayed from thy guide and friend. But were it to seal my ruin, I must, I do pardon thee. Oh! come again, unhappy, lost Calantha. Heaven forgive you, as I do, from my soul.—What means this silence—this agonizing suspense?”“She faints,” cried the nurse. “May God have mercy!” said Lady Avondale. “There is something on my mind. I wish to speak—to tell—your kindness kills me. I repent all.—Oh, is it toolate?”—It was.—For amendment, for return from error, for repentance it was too late. Death struck her at that moment. One piercing shriek proclaimed his power, as casting up her eyes with bitterness and horror, she fixed them upon Lord Avondale.That piercing shriek had escaped from a broken heart. It was the last chord of nature, stretched to the utmost till it broke. A cold chill spread itself over her limbs. In the struggle of death, she had thrown her arms around her husband’s neck; and when her tongue cleaved to her mouth, and her lips were cold and powerless, her eyes yet bright with departing life had fixed themselves earnestly upon him, as if imploring pardon for the past.Oh, resist not that look, Avondale! it is the last. Forgive her—pity her: and if they call it weakness in thee thus to weep, tell them that man is weak,and death dissolves the keenest enmities. Oh! tell them, that there is something in a last look from those whom we have once loved, to which the human soul can never be insensible. But when that look is such as was Calantha’s, and when the last prayer her dying lips expressed was for mercy, who shall dare to refuse and to resist it? It might have rent a harder bosom than thine. It may ascend and plead before the throne of mercy. It was the prayer of a dying penitent:—it was the agonizing look of a breaking heart.Weep then, too generous Avondale, for that frail being who lies so pale so cold in death before thee. Weep; for thou wilt never find again another like her. She was the sole mistress of thy affections, and could wind and turn thee at her will. She knew and felt her power, and trifled with it to a dangerous excess. Others may be fairer, and moreaccomplished in the arts which mortals prize, and more cunning in devices and concealment of their thoughts; but none can ever be so dear to Avondale’s heart as was Calantha.
The letters from her father, Lady Avondale refused to read. Many remonstrances passed between herself and the duke’s servant. The result was a slow journey in the dark night, over a part of the country which was said to be infested by the marauders. No terror alarmed Lady Avondale, save that of losing a last, an only opportunity of once more seeing her husband—of throwing herself upon his mercy—of imploring him to return to his family, even though she were exiled from it. “Yet, I will not kneel to him, or ask it. If when he sees me, he has the heart to refuse me,” she cried, “I will only shew him my child; and if he can look upon it, and kill its mother, let him do it. I think in thatcase—yes, I do feel certain that I can encounter death, without a fear, or a murmur.”
The carriage was at this time turning down a steep descent, when some horsemen gallopping past, bade them make way for Sir Richard Mowbrey. Calantha recognized the voice of the servant: it was the same who had occasioned her so much alarm at the inn near Baron Moor. But the nurse exclaimed in terror that it was one of the rebels: she knew him, she said, by his white uniform; and the presence alone of the admiral, in the duke’s carriage, convinced her of her mistake. “Thanks be to heaven,” cried she the moment she beheld him, “it is in rail earnest the old gentleman.” “Thanks be to heaven,” said Calantha, “he either did not recognize me, or cares not to prevent my journey.” “We’ll, if it isn’t himself,” said the nurse, “and the saints above only know why he rides for pleasure,this dismal night, over these murderous mountains; but at all events he is well guarded. Alack! we are friendless.”
Lady Avondale sighed as the nurse in a tremulous voice ejaculated these observations; for the truth of the last remark gave it much weight. But little did she know at the moment, when the admiral passed, how entirely her fate depended on him.
It was not till morning they arrived at Kelly Cross. “Bless my heart, how terrible you look. What’s the matter, sweet heart?” said the nurse as they alighted from the carriage.—“Look up, dear.—What is the matter?”—“Nurse, there is a pressure upon my brain, like an iron hand; and my eyes see nothing but dimness. Oh God! where am I! Send, oh nurse, send my aunt Seymour—Call my—my husband—tell Lord Avondale to come—is he still here?—There’s death on me: I feel it here—here.”—“Look up, sweet dear:—cheer yourself:—you’llbe better presently.” “Never more, nurse—never more. There is death on me, even as it came straight upon my mother. Oh God!”—“Where is the pain?” “It came like ice upon my heart, and my limbs feel chilled and numbed.—Avondale—Avondale.”
Calantha was carried to a small room, and laid upon a bed. The waiter said that Lord Avondale was still at the inn. The nurse hastened to call him. He was surprised; but not displeased when he heard that Lady Avondale was arrived. He rushed towards her apartment. Sir Richard was with him. “By G—d, Avondale, if you forgive her, I will never see you more. Whilst I live, she shall never dwell in my house.” “Then mine shall shelter her,” said Lord Avondale, breaking from Sir Richard’s grasp: “this is too much;” and with an air of kindness, with a manner gentle and affectionate, Lord Avondale now entered, and approached his wife. “Calantha,”he said, “do not thus give way to the violence of your feelings. I wish not to appear stern.—My God! what is the matter?” “Your poor lady is dying,” said the nurse. “For the love of mercy, speak one gracious word to her.” “I will, I do,” said Lord Avondale, alarmed. “Calantha,” he whispered, without one reproach, “whatever have been your errors, turn here for shelter to a husband’s bosom. I will never leave you. Come here, thou lost one. Thou hast strayed from thy guide and friend. But were it to seal my ruin, I must, I do pardon thee. Oh! come again, unhappy, lost Calantha. Heaven forgive you, as I do, from my soul.—What means this silence—this agonizing suspense?”
“She faints,” cried the nurse. “May God have mercy!” said Lady Avondale. “There is something on my mind. I wish to speak—to tell—your kindness kills me. I repent all.—Oh, is it toolate?”—It was.—For amendment, for return from error, for repentance it was too late. Death struck her at that moment. One piercing shriek proclaimed his power, as casting up her eyes with bitterness and horror, she fixed them upon Lord Avondale.
That piercing shriek had escaped from a broken heart. It was the last chord of nature, stretched to the utmost till it broke. A cold chill spread itself over her limbs. In the struggle of death, she had thrown her arms around her husband’s neck; and when her tongue cleaved to her mouth, and her lips were cold and powerless, her eyes yet bright with departing life had fixed themselves earnestly upon him, as if imploring pardon for the past.
Oh, resist not that look, Avondale! it is the last. Forgive her—pity her: and if they call it weakness in thee thus to weep, tell them that man is weak,and death dissolves the keenest enmities. Oh! tell them, that there is something in a last look from those whom we have once loved, to which the human soul can never be insensible. But when that look is such as was Calantha’s, and when the last prayer her dying lips expressed was for mercy, who shall dare to refuse and to resist it? It might have rent a harder bosom than thine. It may ascend and plead before the throne of mercy. It was the prayer of a dying penitent:—it was the agonizing look of a breaking heart.
Weep then, too generous Avondale, for that frail being who lies so pale so cold in death before thee. Weep; for thou wilt never find again another like her. She was the sole mistress of thy affections, and could wind and turn thee at her will. She knew and felt her power, and trifled with it to a dangerous excess. Others may be fairer, and moreaccomplished in the arts which mortals prize, and more cunning in devices and concealment of their thoughts; but none can ever be so dear to Avondale’s heart as was Calantha.