Mrs. Seymour was now extremely unwell, the least agitation was dreaded
for her. Calantha was constantly enquiring after her; but could not bear
to remain long in her presence. Yet at night she watched by her, when she
did not know of it; and though she had ceased to pray for herself, she
prayed for her. Could it be supposed that, at such a moment, any personal
feelings would engage Calantha to add to her uneasiness. Alas! she sought
in the last resources of guilt to alleviate every apprehension she might
cherish; she feigned a calm she felt not; she made every promise she
meant not to fulfil; she even spoke of Glenarvon with some severity for
his conduct to Alice; and when Mrs. Seymour rejoiced at her escape, she
pressed her hand and wept. Lady Margaret, from the day of their quarrel,
cold and stern, ever arose to leave the room when Calantha entered it,
and Mrs. Seymour seeing resentment kindling in her niece’s eye, in the
gentlest manner urged her to bear with her aunt’s humour.
Lord Glenarvon had not written to Calantha for some days; he had left the
castle; and she laboured under the most painful suspense. The narrative
of Alice’s sufferings was still in her possession. At length he sent
for it. “My Calantha,” he said, in a letter she received from him, “My
Calantha, I have not heard from you, and my misery is the greater, as I
fear that you are resolved to see me no more. I wish for the narrative
in your possession; I know the impression it must make; and strange as
it may appear, I almost rejoice at it. It will spare you much future
sorrow; and it can scarce add one pang to what I already suffer. Had
you accompanied me, it was, I will now acknowledge, my firm resolve to
have devoted every moment of my life to your happiness—to have seen,
to have thought, to have lived, but for you alone. I had then dared to
presume, that the excess of my attachment would remunerate you, for all
the sacrifices you might be compelled to make; that the fame of Glenarvon
would hide, from the eyes of a censorious world, the stigma of disgrace,
which must, I fear, involve you; and that, at all events, in some other
country, we might live alone for each other.—The dream is past; you have
undeceived me; your friends require it: be it, as you and as they desire.
I am about to quit Ireland. If you would see me before I go, it must be
on the instant. What are the wrongs of my country to me? Let others,
who have wealth and power, defend her:—let her look to English policy
for protection; to English justice for liberty and redress. Without a
friend, even as I first set foot upon these shores, I now abandon them.”
“Farewell, Calantha. Thou art the last link which yet binds me to life.
It was for thy sake—for thine alone, that I yet forbore. It is to save
thee, that I now rush onward to meet my fate: grieve not for me. I stood
a solitary being till I knew you. I can encounter evils when I feel that
I alone shall suffer. Let me not think that I have destroyed you. But
for me, you then might have flourished happy and secure. O why would you
tempt the fate of a ruined man?—I entreat you to send the papers in your
possession. I am prepared for the worst. But if you could bring yourself
to believe the agony of my mind at this moment, you would still feel
for me, even though in all else chilled and changed.—Farewell, dearest
of all earthly beings—my soul’s comforter and hope, farewell.” “I will
go with thee Glenarvon, even should my fate exceed Alice’s in misery—I
never will forsake thee.”
Calantha’s servant entered at that moment, and told her that Lord
Glenarvon was below—waiting for the answer. “Take these papers,” said
Calantha, and with them she enclosed a ring which had been found upon
Alice: “Give them yourself to Lord Glenarvon: I cannot see him.—You may
betray me, if it is your inclination; I am in your power; but to save
is not. Therefore, for God’s sake, do not attempt it....” The attendant
had no difficult task in executing this errand. She met Lord Glenarvon
himself, at the door of the library.
Upon alighting from his horse, he had enquired for Lady Margaret Buchanan;
before she was prepared to receive him, the papers were delivered into
his hands; he gave them to O’Kelly; and after paying a shorter visit
to Lady Margaret than at first he had intended, he returned to the inn
at Belfont, to peruse them. First however he looked upon the broach,
and taking up the ring, he pressed it to his lips and sighed, for he
remembered it and her to whom it had been given. Upon this emerald ring,
the words: “_Eterna fede_,” had been inscribed. He had placed it upon
his little favourite’s hand, in token of his fidelity, when first he had
told her of his love; time had worn off and defaced the first impression;
and “_Eterno dolor_,” had been engraved by her in its place—thus telling
in few words the whole history of love—the immensity of its promises—the
cruelty of its disappointment.
Calantha was preparing to answer Glenarvon’s letter: her whole soul was
absorbed in grief, when Sophia entered and informed her that the Admiral
was arrived. It was, she knew, his custom to come and go without much
ceremony; but his sudden presence, and at such a moment, overpowered
her. Perhaps too, her husband might be with him! she fell: Sophia called
for assistance. “Good God! what is the matter?” she said, “You have just
kilt my lady,” said the nurse; “but she’ll be better presently: let her
take her way—let her take her way.” And before Calantha could compose
herself, Sir Richard was in her room. She soon saw by his hearty open
countenance, that he was perfectly ignorant of all that had occurred;
and to keep him so, was now her earnest endeavour. But she was unused
to deceit: all her attempts at it were forced: it was not in her nature;
and pride alone, not better feeling prevented its existence.