The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the
children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any
consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited,
the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone,
informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to
Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none
of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these
goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend
upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change
your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see,
at hearing good English spoken to you; but I am not one who can talk
all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the
road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think
no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green
ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing
them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old
England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at
the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for
all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when
the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about
way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in
a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not
let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes;
and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will not bear with these
proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.”
“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this
unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from
this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here.
Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell
your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure
that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than
Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it
with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir
Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent
door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he
advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he
had not expected, left him, exclaiming as she went, “you have driven me
to this: tell them you have done it”....
* * * * *
In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment
had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain
the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle
presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was
indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was
given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs.
Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the
enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken
unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon
and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and
so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibition every place was
searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success.
Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little
boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood
opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed
lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there
would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;”
sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion
and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for
her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must
say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs
were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at
first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse,
first recovering. “Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those
d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking
gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at
all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon
him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept
more audibly than before.
“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering
her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs.
Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning
sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she
received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply
and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to
her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all
others of bitterness. The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented
his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I
know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never
more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after
such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every
sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her
children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the
child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware.
Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to
all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she
will yet return.”
Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her
she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she
entertained. “Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady
Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to
comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her
in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her
feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The
Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her,
receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know
she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will
receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure
that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus.
Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would
you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh!
she is not there,” said the Duke. “She never will act in a manner we
must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most
ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony
around her.
The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—_all_
else I can forgive.”
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET.