Lady Margaret insisted upon removing Calantha immediately, to London;
but Lord Avondale having heard from the Admiral the cause of her intended
departure, immediately declared his intention of quitting Ireland. Every
thing was now in readiness for his departure; the day fixed; the hour
at hand. It was not perhaps till Lord Avondale felt that he was going
to leave Calantha for ever, that he was fully sensible how much, and
how entirely his affections were engaged.
On the morning previous to his departure, Calantha threw the bracelet,
which Lady Margaret and her cousin had given her, from her arm; and,
weeping upon the bosom of Alice, bitterly lamented her fate, and informed
her friend that she never, never would belong to Buchanan.—Lord Avondale
had in vain sought an opportunity of seeing her one moment alone. He now
perceived the bracelet on the floor of the room she had just quitted; and
looking upon it, read, without being able to comprehend the application
of the inscription, “_Stessa sangue, Stessa sorte._”—He saw her at that
moment:—she was alone:—he followed her:—she fled from him, embarrassed
and agitated; but he soon approached her:—they fly so slowly who fly
from what they love.
Lord Avondale thought he had much to say—many things to ask:—he wished
to explain the feelings of his heart—to tell Calantha, once at least
before he quitted her, how deeply—how dearly he had loved,—how, though
unworthy in his own estimation of aspiring to her hand, the remembrance
of her should stimulate him to every noble exertion, and raise him to
a reputation which, without her influence, he never could attain:—he
thought that he could have clasped her to his bosom, and pressed upon her
lips the first kiss of love—the dearest, the truest pledge of fondness
and devotion. But, scarcely able to speak, confused and faultering, he
dared not approach her:—he saw one before him robed in purity, and more
than vestal innocence—one timidly fearful of even a look, or thought,
that breathed aught against that virtue which alone it worshipped.
“I am come,” he said, at length, “forgive my rashness, to restore
this bracelet, and myself to place it around your arms. Permit me to
say—farewell, before I leave you, perhaps for ever.” As he spoke, he
endeavoured to clasp the diamond lock;—his hand trembled;—Calantha started
from him. “Oh!” said she, “you know not what you do:—I am enough his
already:—be not you the person to devote me to him more completely:—do
not render me utterly miserable.” Though not entirely understanding her,
he scarcely could command himself. Her look, her manner—all told him too
certainly that which overcame his heart with delight.—“She loves me,” he
thought, “and I will die sooner than yield her to any human being:—she
loves me;” and, regardless of fears—of prudence—of every other feeling,
he pressed her one moment to his bosom. “Oh love me, Calantha,” was all
he had time to say; for she broke from him, and fled, too much agitated
to reply. That he had presumed too far, he feared; but that she was not
indifferent to him, he had heard and seen. The thought filled him with
hope, and rendered him callous to all that might befall him.
The Duke entered the room as Calantha quitted it.—“Avondale,” he said,
offering him his hand, “speak to me, for I wish much to converse with
you before we part:—all I ask is, that you will not deceive me. Something
more than common has taken place:—I observed you with my child.” “I must
indeed speak with you,” said Lord Avondale firmly, but with considerable
agitation. “Every thing I hold dear—my life—my happiness—depend on what I
have to say.” He then informed the Duke with sincerity of his attachment
for Calantha,—proud and eager to acknowledge it, even though he feared
that his hopes might never be realized.
“I am surprised and grieved,” said the Duke, “that a young man of your
high rank, fortune and rising fame, should thus madly throw away your
affections upon the only being perhaps who never must, never ought, to
return them. My daughter’s hand is promised to another. When I confess
this, do not mistake me:—No force will ever be made use of towards
her; her inclinations will at all times be consulted, even though she
should forget those of her parent; but she is now a mere child, and more
infantine and volatile withal, than it is possible for you to conceive.
There can be no necessity for her being now called upon to make a decided
choice. Buchanan is my nephew, and since the loss of my son, I have
centered all my hopes in him. He is heir to my name, as she is to my
fortune; and surely then an union between them, would be an event the
most desirable for me and for my family. But such considerations alone
would not influence me. I will tell you those then which operate in a
stronger manner:—I have given my solemn promise to my sister, that I will
do all in my power to assist in bringing about an event upon which her
heart is fixed. Judge then, if during her son’s absence, I can dispose
of Calantha’s hand, or permit her to see more of one, who has already,
I fear, made some impression upon her heart.”
Lord Avondale appeared much agitated.—The Duke paused—then
continued—“Granting that your attachment for my child is as strong as you
would have me believe—granting, my dear young friend, that, captivated by
your very superior abilities, manners and amiable disposition, she has
in part returned the sentiments you acknowledge in her favour,—cannot
you make her the sacrifice I require of you?—Yes.—Though you now think
otherwise, you can do it. So short an acquaintance with each other,
authorizes the term I use:—this is but a mere fancy, which absence and
strength of mind will soon overcome.”
Lord Avondale was proud even to a fault. He had listened to the Duke
without interrupting him; and the Duke continued to speak, because he
was afraid of hearing the answer, which he concluded would be made. For
protestations, menaces, entreaties he was prepared; but the respectful
silence which continued when he ceased, disconcerted him. “You are not
angry?” said he: “let us part in friendship:—do not go from me thus:—you
must forgive a father:—remember she is my child, and bound to me by
still dearer ties—she is my only one.” His voice faltered, as he said
this:—he thought of the son who had once divided his affections, and of
whom he seldom made mention since his loss.
Lord Avondale, touched by his manner and by his kindness, accepted his
hand, and struggling with pride—with love,—“I will obey your commands,”
he at length said, “and fly from her presence, if it be for her
happiness:—her happiness is the dearest object of my life. Yet let me see
her before I leave her.”—“No,” said the Duke, “it is too dangerous.” “If
this must not be,” said Lord Avondale, “at least tell her, that for her
sake, I have conquered even my own nature in relinquishing her hand, and,
with it every hope, but too strongly cherished by me. Tell her, that if I
do this, it is not because I do not feel for her the most passionate and
most unalterable attachment. I renounce her only, as I trust, to consign
her to a happier fate. You are her father:—you best know the affection
she deserves:—if she casts away a thought sometimes on me, let her not
suffer for the generosity and goodness of her heart:—let her not.”—He
would have said more, but he was too deeply affected to continue:—he
could not act, or dissemble:—he felt strongly, and he shewed it.