Sir Richard ordered his carriage at twelve that evening, and did not
even tell Lady Avondale that he was going from the castle. Calantha,
fatigued with the exertions of the day, too ill and too agitated to
leave her room, threw herself upon the bed near her little son. Mac
Allain and the nurse spoke with her; promised to perform her last
injunctions; then left her to herself.
The soft breathing of Harry Mowbrey, who slept undisturbed beside
her, soothed and composed her mind. Her thoughts now travelled back
with rapidity over the varied scenes of her early and happier days:
her life appeared before her like a momentary trance—like a dream
that leaves a feverish and indistinct alarm upon the mind. The span
of existence recurred in memory to her view, and with it all its
hopes, its illusions, and its fears. She started with abhorrence at
every remembrance of her former conduct, her infidelity and neglect
to the best and kindest of husbands—her disobedience to an honoured
parent’s commands. Tears of agonizing remorse streamed from her eyes.
In that name of husband the full horror of her guilt appeared. Every
event had conspired together to blast his rising fortunes, and his
dawning fame. His generous forbearance to herself, was, in fact,
a sacrifice of every worldly hope; for, of all sentiments, severe
and just resentment from one deeply injured, is that which excites
the strongest sympathy; while a contrary mode of conduct, however
founded upon the highest and best qualities of a noble mind, is rarely
appreciated. The cry of justice is alone supported; and the husband
who spares and protects an erring wife, sacrifices his future hopes
of fame and exalted reputation at the shrine of mercy and of love.
She suddenly started with alarm. “What then will become of me?” she
cried. “The measure of my iniquity is at its full.”
Calantha’s tears fell upon her sleeping boy. He awoke, and he beheld
his mother; but he could not discern the agitation of her mind. He
looked on her, therefore, with that radiant look of happiness which
brightens the smile of childhood; nor knew, as he snatched one kiss
in haste, that it was the last, the last kiss from a mother, which
ever through life should bless him with its pressure.
It was now near the hour of twelve; and Mrs. Seymour cautiously
approached Calantha’s bed. “Is it time?” “Not yet, my child.” “Is Sir
Richard gone?” “No; he is still in his own apartment. I have written
a few lines,” said Mrs. Seymour tenderly; “but if you fail, what
hope is there that any thing I can say will avail?” “Had my mother
lived,” said Calantha, “she had acted as you have done. You look so
like her at this moment, that it breaks my heart. Thank God, she does
not live, to see her child’s disgrace.” As she spoke, Calantha burst
into tears, and threw her arms around her aunt’s neck.
“Calm yourself, my child.” “Hear me,” said Lady Avondale. “Perhaps I
shall never more see you. I have drawn down such misery upon myself,
that I cannot bear up under it. If I should die,—and there is a degree
of grief that kills—take care of my children. Hide from them their
mother’s errors. Oh, my dear aunt, at such a moment as this, how all
that attracted in life, all that appeared brilliant, fades away. What
is it I have sought for? Not real happiness—not virtue, but vanity,
and far worse.” “Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, as she wept over her
niece, “there is much to say in palliation of thy errors. The heart
is sometimes tried by prosperity; and it is in my belief the most
difficult of all trials to resist. Who then shall dare to say, that
there was not one single pretext, or excuse, for thy ill conduct?
No wish, no desire of thine was ever ungratified. This in itself is
some palliation. Speak, Calantha: fear not; for who shall plead for
thee, if thou thyself art silent?”
“From the deep recesses of a guilty, yet not humble heart, in the
agony and the hopelessness of despair,” said Calantha, “I acknowledge
before God and before man, that for me there is no excuse. I have
felt, I have enjoyed every happiness, every delight, the earth can
offer. Its vanities, its pleasures, its transports have been mine; and
in all instances I have misused the power with which I have been too
much and too long entrusted. Oh, may the God of worlds innumerable,
who scatters his blessings upon all, and maketh his rain to fall upon
the sinner, as upon the righteous, extend his mercy even unto me.”
“Can I do any thing for you, my child?” said Mrs. Seymour. “Speak
for me to Sophia and Frances,” said Calantha, “and say one word for
me to the good and the kind; for indeed I have ever found the really
virtuous most kind. As to the rest, if any of those with whom I
passed my happier days remember me, tell them, that even in this last
sad hour I think with affection of them; and say, that when I look
back even now with melancholy pleasure upon a career, which, though
short, was gay and brilliant—upon happiness, which though too soon
misused and thrown away, was real and great, it is the remembrance of
my friends, and companions—it is the thought of their affection and
kindness, which adds to and imbitters every regret—for that kindness
was lavished in vain. Tell them I do not hope that my example can
amend them: they will not turn from one wrong pursuit for me; they
will not compare themselves with Calantha; they have not an Avondale
to leave and to betray. Yet when they read my history—if amidst the
severity of justice which such a narrative must excite, some feelings
of forgiveness and pity should arise, perhaps the prayer of one, who
has suffered much, may ascend for them, and the thanks of a broken
heart be accepted in return.”
Mrs. Seymour wept, and promised to perform Calantha’s wishes. She was
still with her, when Mac Allain knocked at the door, and whispered,
that all was in readiness. “Explain every thing to my father,” said
Calantha, again embracing her aunt; “and now farewell.”