Sir Richard wished to say one word to console Lord Avondale; but
he could not. He burst into tears; and knelt down by the side of
Calantha. “I am an old man,” he said. “You thought me severe; but I
would have died, child, to save you. Look up and get well. I can’t
bear to see this:—no, I can’t bear it.” He now reproached himself. “I
have acted rightly perhaps, and as she deserved; but what of that: if
God were to act by us all as we deserve, where should we be? Look up,
child—open your eyes again—I’d give all I have on earth to see you
smile once on me—to feel even that little hand press mine in token
of forgiveness.” “Uncle,” said Lord Avondale, in a faltering voice,
“whatever Calantha’s faults, she forgave every one, however they had
injured her; and she loved you.” “That makes it all the worse,” said
the admiral. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
Sir Richard’s sorrow, whether just or otherwise, came too late. Those
who act with rigid justice here below—those who take upon themselves
to punish the sinner whom God for inscrutable purposes one moment
spares, should sometimes consider that the object against whom
their resentment is excited will soon be no more. Short-lived is the
enjoyment even of successful guilt. An hour’s triumph has perhaps
been purchased by misery so keen, that were we to know all, we should
only commiserate the wretch we now seek to subdue and to punish. The
name of christians we have assumed; the doctrine of our religion, we
have failed to study. How often when passion and rancour move us to
shew our zeal in the cause of virtue, by oppressing and driving to
ruin unutterable, what we call successful villainy, the next hour
brings us the news that the object of our indignation is dead.—That
soul is gone, however polluted, to answer before another throne for
its offences. Ah! who can say that our very severity to such offender
may not turn back upon ourselves, and be registered in the Heaven we
look forward to with such presumption, to exclude us for ever from it.
Sir Richard gazed sadly now upon his nephew. “Don’t make yourself
ill, Henry,” he said. “Bear up under this shock. If it makes you
ill, it will be my death.” “I know you are too generous,” said Lord
Avondale, “not to feel for me.” “I can’t stay any longer here,” said
Sir Richard, weeping. “You look at me in a manner to break my heart. I
will return to the castle; tell them all that has happened; and then
bring the children to you at Allenwater. I will go and fetch Henry
to you.” “I can’t see him now,” said Lord Avondale: “he is so like
her.” “Can I do any thing else for you?” said Sir Richard. “Uncle,”
said Lord Avondale mournfully, “go to the castle, and tell them I
ask that every respect should be shewn in the last rites they offer
to——” “Oh, I understand you,” said Sir Richard, crying: “there will
be no need to say that—she’s lov’d enough.” “Aye that she was,” said
the nurse; “and whatever her faults, there’s many a-one prays for
her at this hour; for since the day of her birth, did she ever turn
away from those who were miserable or in distress?” “She betrayed her
husband,” said Sir Richard. “She had the kindest, noblest heart,”
replied Lord Avondale. “I know her faults: her merits few like to
remember. Uncle, I cannot but feel with bitterness the zeal that
some have shewn against her.” “Do not speak thus, Henry,” said Sir
Richard. “I would have stood by her to the last, had she lived; but
she never would appear penitent and humble. I thought her wanting in
feeling. She braved every one; and did so many things that....” “She
is dead,” said Lord Avondale, greatly agitated. “Oh, by the affection
you profess for me, spare her memory.” “You loved her then even——.”
“I loved her better than any thing in life.”
Sir Richard wept bitterly. “My dear boy, take care of yourself,”
he said. “Let me hear from you.” “You shall hear of me,” said Lord
Avondale. The admiral then took his leave; and Lord Avondale returned
into Calantha’s apartment. The nurse followed. Affected at seeing
his little girl, he prest her to his heart, and desired she might
immediately be sent to Allenwater. Then ordering every one from the
room, he turned to look for the last time upon Calantha. There was
not the faintest tint of colour on her pale transparent cheek. The
dark lashes of her eye shaded its soft blue lustre from his mournful
gaze. There was a silence around. It was the calm—the stillness of
the grave.
Lord Avondale pressed her lips to his. “God bless, and pardon thee,
Calantha,” he cried. “Now even I can look upon thee and weep. O, how
could’st thou betray me! ‘It is not an open enemy that hath done me
this dishonour, for then I could have borne it: neither was it mine
adversary that did magnify himself against me; for then peradventure I
would have hid myself from him: but it was even thou, my companion, my
guide, and mine own familiar friend.’——We took sweet counsel together
... farewell! It was myself who led thee to thy ruin. I loved thee
more than man should love so frail a being, and then I left thee to
thyself. I could not bear to grieve thee; I could not bear to curb
thee; and thou hast lost me and thyself. Farewell. Thy death has left
me free to act. Thou had’st a strange power over my heart, and thou
did’st misuse it.”
As he uttered these words, while yet in presence of the lifeless form
of his departed, his guilty wife, he prepared to leave the mournful
scene. “Send the children to Allenwater, if you have mercy.” These
were the last words he addrest to the nurse as he hurried from her
presence.
O man, how weak and impotent is thy nature! Thou can’st hate, and
love, and kiss the lips of thy enemy, and strike thy dagger into the
bosom of a friend. Thou can’st command thousands, and govern empires;
but thou can’st not rule thy stormy passions, nor alter the destiny
that leads thee on. And could Avondale thus weep for an ungrateful
wife? Let those who live long enough in this cold world to feel its
heartlessness, answer such enquiry. Whatever she had been, Calantha
was still his friend. Together they had tried the joys and ills of
life; the same interests united them: and the children as they turned
to their father, pleaded for the mother whom they resembled.—Nothing,
however, fair or estimable, can replace the loss of an early friend.
Nothing that after-life can offer will influence us in the same degree.
It has been said, that although our feelings are less acute in maturer
age than in youth, yet the young mind will soonest recover from the
blow that falls heaviest upon it. In that season of our life, we have
it in our power, it is said, in a measure to repair the losses which
we have sustained. But these are the opinions of the aged, whose pulse
beats low—whose reasoning powers can pause, and weigh and measure
out the affections of others. In youth these losses affect the very
seat of life and reason, chill the warm blood in its rapid current,
unnerve every fibre of the frame, and cause the phrenzy of despair.
The duke was calm; but Lord Avondale felt with bitterness his injury
and his loss. The sovereign who has set his seal to the sentence
of death passed upon the traitor who had betrayed him, ofttimes in
after-life has turned to regret the friend, the companion he has
lost. “She was consigned to me when pure and better than those who
now upbraid her. I had the guidance of her; and I led her myself into
temptation and ruin. Can a few years have thus spoiled and hardened
a noble nature! Where are the friends and flatterers, Calantha, who
surrounded thee in an happier hour? I was abandoned for them: where
are they now? Is there not one to turn and plead for thee—not one!
They are gone in quest of new amusement. Some other is the favourite
of the day. The fallen are remembered only by their faults.”