CHAPTER LXXXVI.The convulsive sobs of real agony, the eloquence which despair and affection create in all, the pleadings of his own kind and generous heart were vain. He raised her senseless from the earth; he placed her upon a couch; and without daring to look upon her, as he extricated his hand from the strong grasp of terror, he fled from her apartment.Mrs. Seymour had waited to see him; and, when he had quitted her niece’s room, she arrested him as he would have hastened by her, at the head of the stairs. Her ill state of health, and deep anxiety, had enfeebled her too much to endure the shock of hearing his irrevocable intention. He knew this, and wished to break it to her gently. She pressed hishand; she looked upon his countenance. All a mother’s heart spoke in those looks. Was there a hope yet left for her unhappy niece? “Oh, if there yet be hope, speak, Lord Avondale; spare the feelings of one who never injured you; look in that face and have mercy, for in it there is all the bitterness of despair.” He sought for expressions that might soften the pang—he wished to give her hope; but too much agitated himself to know what he then said: “I am resolved—I am going immediately,” he said, and passed her by in haste. He saw not the effect of his words—he heard not the smothered shriek of a heart-broken parent.As he rushed forward, he met the duke, who in one moment marked, in the altered manner of Lord Avondale—the perfect calm—the chilling proud reserve he had assumed, that there was no hope of reconciliation. He offered him his hand: he was himself much moved.“I can never ask, or expect you to forgive her,” he said, in a low broken voice. “Your generous forbearance has been fully appreciated by me. I number it amongst the heaviest of my calamities, that I can only greet you on your return with my sincere condolements. Alas! I gave you as an inheritage a bitter portion. You are at liberty to resent as a man, a conduct, which not even a father can expect, or ask you to forgive.” Lord Avondale turned abruptly from the duke: “Are my horses put to the carriage?” he said impatiently to a servant. “All is in readiness.” “You will not go?” “I must: my uncle waits for me at the inn at Belfont: he would scarcely permit me....”The shrieks of women from an adjoining apartment interrupted Lord Avondale. The duke hastened to the spot. Lord Avondale reluctantly followed. “Lady Avondale is dead,” said one: “the barbarian has murdered her.”—LordAvondale flew forward. The violence of her feelings had been tried too far. That irrevocable sentence, that assumed sternness, had struck upon a heart, already breaking. Calantha was with some difficulty brought to herself. “Is he gone?” were the first words she uttered. “Oh! let him not leave me yet.”Sir Richard, having waited at Belfont till his patience was wholly exhausted, had entered the castle, and seeing how matters were likely to terminate, urged his nephew with extreme severity to be firm. “This is all art,” he said: “be not moved by it.” Lord Avondale waited to hear that Calantha was better, then entered the carriage, and drove off. “I will stay awhile,” said Sir Richard, “and see how she is; but if you wait for me at Kelly Cross, I will overtake you there. Be firm: this is all subterfuge, and what might have been expected.”Calantha upon recovering, sought Sir Richard. Her looks were haggard and wild: despair had given them a dreadful expression. “Have mercy—have mercy. I command, I do not implore you to grant me one request,” she said—“to give me yet one chance, however, undeserved. Let me see him, cruel man: let me kneel to him.” “Kneel to him!” cried Sir Richard, with indignation: “never. You have used your arts long enough to make a fool, and a slave, of a noble, confiding husband. There is some justice in Heaven: I thank God his eyes are open at last. He has acted like a man. Had he pardoned an adultress—had he heard her, and suffered his reason to be beguiled—had he taken again to his heart the wanton who has sacrificed his honour, his happiness, and every tie, I would have renounced him for ever. No, no, he shall not return: by God, he shall not see you again.”“Have mercy,” still repeated Lady Avondale; but it was but faintly. “I’ll never have mercy for one like you, serpent, who having been fondled in his bosom, bit him to the heart. Are you not ashamed to look at me?” Calantha’s tears had flowed in the presence of her husband; but now they ceased. Sir Richard softened in his manner. “Our chances in life are as in a lottery,” he said; “and if one who draws the highest prize of all, throws it away in very wantonness, and then sits down to mourn for it, who will be so great a hypocrite, or so base a flatterer, as to affect compassion? You had no pity for him: you ought not to be forgiven.”“Can you answer it to yourself to refuse me one interview? Can you have the heart to speak with such severity to one already fallen?” “Madam, why do you appeal to me? What are you approaching me for? What can I do?”“Oh, there will be curses on yourhead, Sir Richard, for this; but I will follow him. There is no hope for me but in seeing him myself.” “There is no hope at all, madam,” said Sir Richard, triumphantly: “he’s my own nephew; and he acts as he ought. Lady Avondale, he desires you may be treated with every possible respect. Your children will be left with you, as long as your conduct——” “Will he see me?” “Never.”
The convulsive sobs of real agony, the eloquence which despair and affection create in all, the pleadings of his own kind and generous heart were vain. He raised her senseless from the earth; he placed her upon a couch; and without daring to look upon her, as he extricated his hand from the strong grasp of terror, he fled from her apartment.
Mrs. Seymour had waited to see him; and, when he had quitted her niece’s room, she arrested him as he would have hastened by her, at the head of the stairs. Her ill state of health, and deep anxiety, had enfeebled her too much to endure the shock of hearing his irrevocable intention. He knew this, and wished to break it to her gently. She pressed hishand; she looked upon his countenance. All a mother’s heart spoke in those looks. Was there a hope yet left for her unhappy niece? “Oh, if there yet be hope, speak, Lord Avondale; spare the feelings of one who never injured you; look in that face and have mercy, for in it there is all the bitterness of despair.” He sought for expressions that might soften the pang—he wished to give her hope; but too much agitated himself to know what he then said: “I am resolved—I am going immediately,” he said, and passed her by in haste. He saw not the effect of his words—he heard not the smothered shriek of a heart-broken parent.
As he rushed forward, he met the duke, who in one moment marked, in the altered manner of Lord Avondale—the perfect calm—the chilling proud reserve he had assumed, that there was no hope of reconciliation. He offered him his hand: he was himself much moved.“I can never ask, or expect you to forgive her,” he said, in a low broken voice. “Your generous forbearance has been fully appreciated by me. I number it amongst the heaviest of my calamities, that I can only greet you on your return with my sincere condolements. Alas! I gave you as an inheritage a bitter portion. You are at liberty to resent as a man, a conduct, which not even a father can expect, or ask you to forgive.” Lord Avondale turned abruptly from the duke: “Are my horses put to the carriage?” he said impatiently to a servant. “All is in readiness.” “You will not go?” “I must: my uncle waits for me at the inn at Belfont: he would scarcely permit me....”
The shrieks of women from an adjoining apartment interrupted Lord Avondale. The duke hastened to the spot. Lord Avondale reluctantly followed. “Lady Avondale is dead,” said one: “the barbarian has murdered her.”—LordAvondale flew forward. The violence of her feelings had been tried too far. That irrevocable sentence, that assumed sternness, had struck upon a heart, already breaking. Calantha was with some difficulty brought to herself. “Is he gone?” were the first words she uttered. “Oh! let him not leave me yet.”
Sir Richard, having waited at Belfont till his patience was wholly exhausted, had entered the castle, and seeing how matters were likely to terminate, urged his nephew with extreme severity to be firm. “This is all art,” he said: “be not moved by it.” Lord Avondale waited to hear that Calantha was better, then entered the carriage, and drove off. “I will stay awhile,” said Sir Richard, “and see how she is; but if you wait for me at Kelly Cross, I will overtake you there. Be firm: this is all subterfuge, and what might have been expected.”
Calantha upon recovering, sought Sir Richard. Her looks were haggard and wild: despair had given them a dreadful expression. “Have mercy—have mercy. I command, I do not implore you to grant me one request,” she said—“to give me yet one chance, however, undeserved. Let me see him, cruel man: let me kneel to him.” “Kneel to him!” cried Sir Richard, with indignation: “never. You have used your arts long enough to make a fool, and a slave, of a noble, confiding husband. There is some justice in Heaven: I thank God his eyes are open at last. He has acted like a man. Had he pardoned an adultress—had he heard her, and suffered his reason to be beguiled—had he taken again to his heart the wanton who has sacrificed his honour, his happiness, and every tie, I would have renounced him for ever. No, no, he shall not return: by God, he shall not see you again.”
“Have mercy,” still repeated Lady Avondale; but it was but faintly. “I’ll never have mercy for one like you, serpent, who having been fondled in his bosom, bit him to the heart. Are you not ashamed to look at me?” Calantha’s tears had flowed in the presence of her husband; but now they ceased. Sir Richard softened in his manner. “Our chances in life are as in a lottery,” he said; “and if one who draws the highest prize of all, throws it away in very wantonness, and then sits down to mourn for it, who will be so great a hypocrite, or so base a flatterer, as to affect compassion? You had no pity for him: you ought not to be forgiven.”
“Can you answer it to yourself to refuse me one interview? Can you have the heart to speak with such severity to one already fallen?” “Madam, why do you appeal to me? What are you approaching me for? What can I do?”
“Oh, there will be curses on yourhead, Sir Richard, for this; but I will follow him. There is no hope for me but in seeing him myself.” “There is no hope at all, madam,” said Sir Richard, triumphantly: “he’s my own nephew; and he acts as he ought. Lady Avondale, he desires you may be treated with every possible respect. Your children will be left with you, as long as your conduct——” “Will he see me?” “Never.”