The convulsive sobs of real agony, the eloquence which despair and
affection create in all, the pleadings of his own kind and generous
heart were vain. He raised her senseless from the earth; he placed her
upon a couch; and without daring to look upon her, as he extricated
his hand from the strong grasp of terror, he fled from her apartment.
Mrs. Seymour had waited to see him; and, when he had quitted her
niece’s room, she arrested him as he would have hastened by her, at
the head of the stairs. Her ill state of health, and deep anxiety, had
enfeebled her too much to endure the shock of hearing his irrevocable
intention. He knew this, and wished to break it to her gently. She
pressed his hand; she looked upon his countenance. All a mother’s
heart spoke in those looks. Was there a hope yet left for her unhappy
niece? “Oh, if there yet be hope, speak, Lord Avondale; spare the
feelings of one who never injured you; look in that face and have
mercy, for in it there is all the bitterness of despair.” He sought
for expressions that might soften the pang—he wished to give her
hope; but too much agitated himself to know what he then said: “I
am resolved—I am going immediately,” he said, and passed her by in
haste. He saw not the effect of his words—he heard not the smothered
shriek of a heart-broken parent.
As he rushed forward, he met the duke, who in one moment marked, in the
altered manner of Lord Avondale—the perfect calm—the chilling proud
reserve he had assumed, that there was no hope of reconciliation. He
offered him his hand: he was himself much moved. “I can never ask,
or expect you to forgive her,” he said, in a low broken voice. “Your
generous forbearance has been fully appreciated by me. I number it
amongst the heaviest of my calamities, that I can only greet you
on your return with my sincere condolements. Alas! I gave you as
an inheritage a bitter portion. You are at liberty to resent as a
man, a conduct, which not even a father can expect, or ask you to
forgive.” Lord Avondale turned abruptly from the duke: “Are my horses
put to the carriage?” he said impatiently to a servant. “All is in
readiness.” “You will not go?” “I must: my uncle waits for me at the
inn at Belfont: he would scarcely permit me....”
The shrieks of women from an adjoining apartment interrupted Lord
Avondale. The duke hastened to the spot. Lord Avondale reluctantly
followed. “Lady Avondale is dead,” said one: “the barbarian has
murdered her.”—Lord Avondale flew forward. The violence of her feelings
had been tried too far. That irrevocable sentence, that assumed
sternness, had struck upon a heart, already breaking. Calantha was
with some difficulty brought to herself. “Is he gone?” were the first
words she uttered. “Oh! let him not leave me yet.”
Sir Richard, having waited at Belfont till his patience was wholly
exhausted, had entered the castle, and seeing how matters were likely
to terminate, urged his nephew with extreme severity to be firm. “This
is all art,” he said: “be not moved by it.” Lord Avondale waited to
hear that Calantha was better, then entered the carriage, and drove
off. “I will stay awhile,” said Sir Richard, “and see how she is;
but if you wait for me at Kelly Cross, I will overtake you there. Be
firm: this is all subterfuge, and what might have been expected.”
Calantha upon recovering, sought Sir Richard. Her looks were haggard
and wild: despair had given them a dreadful expression. “Have
mercy—have mercy. I command, I do not implore you to grant me one
request,” she said—“to give me yet one chance, however, undeserved.
Let me see him, cruel man: let me kneel to him.” “Kneel to him!” cried
Sir Richard, with indignation: “never. You have used your arts long
enough to make a fool, and a slave, of a noble, confiding husband.
There is some justice in Heaven: I thank God his eyes are open at
last. He has acted like a man. Had he pardoned an adultress—had he
heard her, and suffered his reason to be beguiled—had he taken again
to his heart the wanton who has sacrificed his honour, his happiness,
and every tie, I would have renounced him for ever. No, no, he shall
not return: by God, he shall not see you again.”
“Have mercy,” still repeated Lady Avondale; but it was but faintly.
“I’ll never have mercy for one like you, serpent, who having been
fondled in his bosom, bit him to the heart. Are you not ashamed
to look at me?” Calantha’s tears had flowed in the presence of her
husband; but now they ceased. Sir Richard softened in his manner.
“Our chances in life are as in a lottery,” he said; “and if one who
draws the highest prize of all, throws it away in very wantonness,
and then sits down to mourn for it, who will be so great a hypocrite,
or so base a flatterer, as to affect compassion? You had no pity for
him: you ought not to be forgiven.”
“Can you answer it to yourself to refuse me one interview? Can you
have the heart to speak with such severity to one already fallen?”
“Madam, why do you appeal to me? What are you approaching me for?
What can I do?”
“Oh, there will be curses on your head, Sir Richard, for this; but I
will follow him. There is no hope for me but in seeing him myself.”
“There is no hope at all, madam,” said Sir Richard, triumphantly:
“he’s my own nephew; and he acts as he ought. Lady Avondale, he desires
you may be treated with every possible respect. Your children will be
left with you, as long as your conduct——” “Will he see me?” “Never.”