CHAPTER XC.Sir Richard wished to say one word to console Lord Avondale; but he could not. He burst into tears; and knelt down by the side of Calantha. “I am an old man,” he said. “You thought me severe; but I would have died, child, to save you. Look up and get well. I can’t bear to see this:—no, I can’t bear it.” He now reproached himself. “I have acted rightly perhaps, and as she deserved; but what of that: if God were to act by us all as we deserve, where should we be? Look up, child—open your eyes again—I’d give all I have on earth to see you smile once on me—to feel even that little hand press mine in token of forgiveness.” “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale, in a faltering voice,“whatever Calantha’s faults, she forgave every one, however they had injured her; and she loved you.” “That makes it all the worse,” said the admiral. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”Sir Richard’s sorrow, whether just or otherwise, came too late. Those who act with rigid justice here below—those who take upon themselves to punish the sinner whom God for inscrutable purposes one moment spares, should sometimes consider that the object against whom their resentment is excited will soon be no more. Short-lived is the enjoyment even of successful guilt. An hour’s triumph has perhaps been purchased by misery so keen, that were we to know all, we should only commiserate the wretch we now seek to subdue and to punish. The name of christians we have assumed; the doctrine of our religion, we have failed to study. How often when passion and rancour move us to shew our zeal in the cause of virtue,by oppressing and driving to ruin unutterable, what we call successful villainy, the next hour brings us the news that the object of our indignation is dead.—That soul is gone, however polluted, to answer before another throne for its offences. Ah! who can say that our very severity to such offender may not turn back upon ourselves, and be registered in the Heaven we look forward to with such presumption, to exclude us for ever from it.Sir Richard gazed sadly now upon his nephew. “Don’t make yourself ill, Henry,” he said. “Bear up under this shock. If it makes you ill, it will be my death.” “I know you are too generous,” said Lord Avondale, “not to feel for me.” “I can’t stay any longer here,” said Sir Richard, weeping. “You look at me in a manner to break my heart. I will return to the castle; tell them all that has happened; and then bring the children to you at Allenwater. I will goand fetch Henry to you.” “I can’t see him now,” said Lord Avondale: “he is so like her.” “Can I do any thing else for you?” said Sir Richard. “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale mournfully, “go to the castle, and tell them I ask that every respect should be shewn in the last rites they offer to——” “Oh, I understand you,” said Sir Richard, crying: “there will be no need to say that—she’s lov’d enough.” “Aye that she was,” said the nurse; “and whatever her faults, there’s many a-one prays for her at this hour; for since the day of her birth, did she ever turn away from those who were miserable or in distress?” “She betrayed her husband,” said Sir Richard. “She had the kindest, noblest heart,” replied Lord Avondale. “I know her faults: her merits few like to remember. Uncle, I cannot but feel with bitterness the zeal that some have shewn against her.” “Do not speak thus, Henry,” said Sir Richard. “Iwould have stood by her to the last, had she lived; but she never would appear penitent and humble. I thought her wanting in feeling. She braved every one; and did so many things that....” “She is dead,” said Lord Avondale, greatly agitated. “Oh, by the affection you profess for me, spare her memory.” “You loved her then even——.” “I loved her better than any thing in life.”Sir Richard wept bitterly. “My dear boy, take care of yourself,” he said. “Let me hear from you.” “You shall hear of me,” said Lord Avondale. The admiral then took his leave; and Lord Avondale returned into Calantha’s apartment. The nurse followed. Affected at seeing his little girl, he prest her to his heart, and desired she might immediately be sent to Allenwater. Then ordering every one from the room, he turned to look for the last time upon Calantha. There was not the faintest tint of colour on her pale transparentcheek. The dark lashes of her eye shaded its soft blue lustre from his mournful gaze. There was a silence around. It was the calm—the stillness of the grave.Lord Avondale pressed her lips to his. “God bless, and pardon thee, Calantha,” he cried. “Now even I can look upon thee and weep. O, how could’st thou betray me! ‘It is not an open enemy that hath done me this dishonour, for then I could have borne it: neither was it mine adversary that did magnify himself against me; for then peradventure I would have hid myself from him: but it was even thou, my companion, my guide, and mine own familiar friend.’——We took sweet counsel together ... farewell! It was myself who led thee to thy ruin. I loved thee more than man should love so frail a being, and then I left thee to thyself. I could not bear to grieve thee; I could not bear to curb thee; and thou hast lostme and thyself. Farewell. Thy death has left me free to act. Thou had’st a strange power over my heart, and thou did’st misuse it.”As he uttered these words, while yet in presence of the lifeless form of his departed, his guilty wife, he prepared to leave the mournful scene. “Send the children to Allenwater, if you have mercy.” These were the last words he addrest to the nurse as he hurried from her presence.O man, how weak and impotent is thy nature! Thou can’st hate, and love, and kiss the lips of thy enemy, and strike thy dagger into the bosom of a friend. Thou can’st command thousands, and govern empires; but thou can’st not rule thy stormy passions, nor alter the destiny that leads thee on. And could Avondale thus weep for an ungrateful wife? Let those who live long enough in this cold world to feel its heartlessness, answer such enquiry. Whatever she hadbeen, Calantha was still his friend. Together they had tried the joys and ills of life; the same interests united them: and the children as they turned to their father, pleaded for the mother whom they resembled.—Nothing, however, fair or estimable, can replace the loss of an early friend. Nothing that after-life can offer will influence us in the same degree. It has been said, that although our feelings are less acute in maturer age than in youth, yet the young mind will soonest recover from the blow that falls heaviest upon it. In that season of our life, we have it in our power, it is said, in a measure to repair the losses which we have sustained. But these are the opinions of the aged, whose pulse beats low—whose reasoning powers can pause, and weigh and measure out the affections of others. In youth these losses affect the very seat of life and reason, chill the warm blood in its rapid current, unnerve every fibreof the frame, and cause the phrenzy of despair.The duke was calm; but Lord Avondale felt with bitterness his injury and his loss. The sovereign who has set his seal to the sentence of death passed upon the traitor who had betrayed him, ofttimes in after-life has turned to regret the friend, the companion he has lost. “She was consigned to me when pure and better than those who now upbraid her. I had the guidance of her; and I led her myself into temptation and ruin. Can a few years have thus spoiled and hardened a noble nature! Where are the friends and flatterers, Calantha, who surrounded thee in an happier hour? I was abandoned for them: where are they now? Is there not one to turn and plead for thee—not one! They are gone in quest of new amusement. Some other is the favourite of the day. The fallen are remembered only by their faults.”
Sir Richard wished to say one word to console Lord Avondale; but he could not. He burst into tears; and knelt down by the side of Calantha. “I am an old man,” he said. “You thought me severe; but I would have died, child, to save you. Look up and get well. I can’t bear to see this:—no, I can’t bear it.” He now reproached himself. “I have acted rightly perhaps, and as she deserved; but what of that: if God were to act by us all as we deserve, where should we be? Look up, child—open your eyes again—I’d give all I have on earth to see you smile once on me—to feel even that little hand press mine in token of forgiveness.” “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale, in a faltering voice,“whatever Calantha’s faults, she forgave every one, however they had injured her; and she loved you.” “That makes it all the worse,” said the admiral. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
Sir Richard’s sorrow, whether just or otherwise, came too late. Those who act with rigid justice here below—those who take upon themselves to punish the sinner whom God for inscrutable purposes one moment spares, should sometimes consider that the object against whom their resentment is excited will soon be no more. Short-lived is the enjoyment even of successful guilt. An hour’s triumph has perhaps been purchased by misery so keen, that were we to know all, we should only commiserate the wretch we now seek to subdue and to punish. The name of christians we have assumed; the doctrine of our religion, we have failed to study. How often when passion and rancour move us to shew our zeal in the cause of virtue,by oppressing and driving to ruin unutterable, what we call successful villainy, the next hour brings us the news that the object of our indignation is dead.—That soul is gone, however polluted, to answer before another throne for its offences. Ah! who can say that our very severity to such offender may not turn back upon ourselves, and be registered in the Heaven we look forward to with such presumption, to exclude us for ever from it.
Sir Richard gazed sadly now upon his nephew. “Don’t make yourself ill, Henry,” he said. “Bear up under this shock. If it makes you ill, it will be my death.” “I know you are too generous,” said Lord Avondale, “not to feel for me.” “I can’t stay any longer here,” said Sir Richard, weeping. “You look at me in a manner to break my heart. I will return to the castle; tell them all that has happened; and then bring the children to you at Allenwater. I will goand fetch Henry to you.” “I can’t see him now,” said Lord Avondale: “he is so like her.” “Can I do any thing else for you?” said Sir Richard. “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale mournfully, “go to the castle, and tell them I ask that every respect should be shewn in the last rites they offer to——” “Oh, I understand you,” said Sir Richard, crying: “there will be no need to say that—she’s lov’d enough.” “Aye that she was,” said the nurse; “and whatever her faults, there’s many a-one prays for her at this hour; for since the day of her birth, did she ever turn away from those who were miserable or in distress?” “She betrayed her husband,” said Sir Richard. “She had the kindest, noblest heart,” replied Lord Avondale. “I know her faults: her merits few like to remember. Uncle, I cannot but feel with bitterness the zeal that some have shewn against her.” “Do not speak thus, Henry,” said Sir Richard. “Iwould have stood by her to the last, had she lived; but she never would appear penitent and humble. I thought her wanting in feeling. She braved every one; and did so many things that....” “She is dead,” said Lord Avondale, greatly agitated. “Oh, by the affection you profess for me, spare her memory.” “You loved her then even——.” “I loved her better than any thing in life.”
Sir Richard wept bitterly. “My dear boy, take care of yourself,” he said. “Let me hear from you.” “You shall hear of me,” said Lord Avondale. The admiral then took his leave; and Lord Avondale returned into Calantha’s apartment. The nurse followed. Affected at seeing his little girl, he prest her to his heart, and desired she might immediately be sent to Allenwater. Then ordering every one from the room, he turned to look for the last time upon Calantha. There was not the faintest tint of colour on her pale transparentcheek. The dark lashes of her eye shaded its soft blue lustre from his mournful gaze. There was a silence around. It was the calm—the stillness of the grave.
Lord Avondale pressed her lips to his. “God bless, and pardon thee, Calantha,” he cried. “Now even I can look upon thee and weep. O, how could’st thou betray me! ‘It is not an open enemy that hath done me this dishonour, for then I could have borne it: neither was it mine adversary that did magnify himself against me; for then peradventure I would have hid myself from him: but it was even thou, my companion, my guide, and mine own familiar friend.’——We took sweet counsel together ... farewell! It was myself who led thee to thy ruin. I loved thee more than man should love so frail a being, and then I left thee to thyself. I could not bear to grieve thee; I could not bear to curb thee; and thou hast lostme and thyself. Farewell. Thy death has left me free to act. Thou had’st a strange power over my heart, and thou did’st misuse it.”
As he uttered these words, while yet in presence of the lifeless form of his departed, his guilty wife, he prepared to leave the mournful scene. “Send the children to Allenwater, if you have mercy.” These were the last words he addrest to the nurse as he hurried from her presence.
O man, how weak and impotent is thy nature! Thou can’st hate, and love, and kiss the lips of thy enemy, and strike thy dagger into the bosom of a friend. Thou can’st command thousands, and govern empires; but thou can’st not rule thy stormy passions, nor alter the destiny that leads thee on. And could Avondale thus weep for an ungrateful wife? Let those who live long enough in this cold world to feel its heartlessness, answer such enquiry. Whatever she hadbeen, Calantha was still his friend. Together they had tried the joys and ills of life; the same interests united them: and the children as they turned to their father, pleaded for the mother whom they resembled.—Nothing, however, fair or estimable, can replace the loss of an early friend. Nothing that after-life can offer will influence us in the same degree. It has been said, that although our feelings are less acute in maturer age than in youth, yet the young mind will soonest recover from the blow that falls heaviest upon it. In that season of our life, we have it in our power, it is said, in a measure to repair the losses which we have sustained. But these are the opinions of the aged, whose pulse beats low—whose reasoning powers can pause, and weigh and measure out the affections of others. In youth these losses affect the very seat of life and reason, chill the warm blood in its rapid current, unnerve every fibreof the frame, and cause the phrenzy of despair.
The duke was calm; but Lord Avondale felt with bitterness his injury and his loss. The sovereign who has set his seal to the sentence of death passed upon the traitor who had betrayed him, ofttimes in after-life has turned to regret the friend, the companion he has lost. “She was consigned to me when pure and better than those who now upbraid her. I had the guidance of her; and I led her myself into temptation and ruin. Can a few years have thus spoiled and hardened a noble nature! Where are the friends and flatterers, Calantha, who surrounded thee in an happier hour? I was abandoned for them: where are they now? Is there not one to turn and plead for thee—not one! They are gone in quest of new amusement. Some other is the favourite of the day. The fallen are remembered only by their faults.”