Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the
morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady
Margaret entered, and informed her of this.
She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands,
and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected
from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that
Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While
Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe
countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon
upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as
her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaret without a word
being uttered on her part, left the room.
As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is
going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for
you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal,
and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness
he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s
right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,”
continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination,
that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your
letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe
the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end
here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached
her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said,
“to exceeding low spirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief
has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery?
Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father,
an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it?
Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart,
that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for
itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are
now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in
this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with
your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made
early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but
you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s
blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale
a noble choice? What quality is there, whether of person or of mind,
in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I
do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an
offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him
that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear
you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud
looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge;
but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This
is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in
its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not
at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up
his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress
who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child.
No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or support me; but on my knees
here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to
me: I am very miserable.”
“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be
forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more;
and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words?
It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that
I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my
positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended
God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see
him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be
found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his
will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw
his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words,
trembling with passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left
her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.—
At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am
miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle.
Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon,
I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself
who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately.
You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but
in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say
you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.”
Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who
was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She
endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in the morning respecting
her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to
the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she
knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her
niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length
of time.
Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood
met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some
one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I
cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where?
How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too
early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He
turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given
yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh,
you know not what has passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled
contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the
dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of
art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I
shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there,
Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power:
do not lead me to infamy and ruin.”
Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion
in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no
rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of
suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore
testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his
heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with
disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is
it for such as you that I have consented to live? How different from her
I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the
husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon
his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it
would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from
malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled
with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached
too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half
suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever
cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You
will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and
excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to
either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.”