Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that
he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where
he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with
his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he
performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then
assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day
at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had
been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of
joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told
her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with
the children, if all continued tranquil in those quarters. She spoke
this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her
whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had
been accustomed, that he could not but observe it.
Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll
be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children,
telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.”
“He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my
gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow
for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want
no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will
you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is
the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this
seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “Clarence Glenarvon,” replied the
boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,”
said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away.
“Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have
the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted
the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross
the rest of the day.
Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat
at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle.
It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was
not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch
Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred;
but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred
without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her from its
consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable
to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved,
without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill
conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead
of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance,
she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which
is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt
for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she
gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her
aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained
her one hour from Glenarvon.
On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning
Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of
dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a name too horrible
to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room;
and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of
passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found
a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,”
she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.”
Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or
their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom,
and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with
Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too,
inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now
must consider herself wholly unfit.
But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s.
“My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his
mother.” And she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme
astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She
was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known
lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused
from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate
exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s
request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter.
But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she
said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have
seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,”
repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself
to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The
Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no
answer; but desired her maid to take it away, and leave her. She did
not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message,
was in tears.
Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a
sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s
past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few
words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they
were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving
misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot
conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will
not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will
make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the
moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it
may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from
reflection; but it will overtake you when too late to recall the emotions
of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high
ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you
felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true,
how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and
you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder,
then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned
every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to
stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never
believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public
dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent,
it is not yet too late.”
“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter:
“it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with the agony of her passionate
grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not
stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious,
and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death
of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my
aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She
never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave....
These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony.
Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope
that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.”
The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the
dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered
her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be
repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge, to upbraid,
villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain.
She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her
mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go
not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had
best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at
last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite
lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much
agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.”
“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped
her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not.
“I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said.
“I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to
behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and God reward
you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You
will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from
you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind
to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no:
I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see
him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....”
“Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate,
or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you
will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest
impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother,
at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her
hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said
Mrs. Seymour. “I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will
never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single
words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.”
“I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing
herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave
you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of
them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha.
After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard,
without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good
emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of
contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called
away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the
greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing the company,
at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune
to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured;
and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very
devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.”