“Glenarvon,” Lady Avondale replied, weeping bitterly. “I am much more miserable than you can be; I have more love for you than it is possible you can feel for me. I am not worth half what you inspire. I never will consent to part.” “Then you must accompany me,” he said, looking her full in the face. “Alas! if I do thus, how will yourself despise me. When society, and those whose opinion you value, brand her name with infamy who leaves all for you, where shall we fly from dishonor? how will you bear up under my disgrace?” “I will bear you in my arms from the country that condemns you—in my heart, your name shall continue spotless as purity,” he replied,—“sacred as truth. I will resist every opposition, and slay every one who shall dare to breathe one thought against you. For you I could renounce and despise the world; and I will teach you that love is in itself such ecstacy, that all we leave for it is nothing to it.”
“How can I resist you?” she answered. “Allow me to hear and yet forget the lessons which you teach—let me look on you, yet doubt you—let me die for you, but not see you thus suffer.” “Come with me now—even now,” said Glenarvon fiercely,—“I must make you mine before we part: then I will trust you; but not till then.” He looked upon her with scorn, as she struggled from his grasp. “Calantha, you affect to feel more than I do,” he cried; “but your heart could not exist under what I endure. You love!—Oh you do not know how to love.” “Do not be so cruel to me: look not so fierce Glenarvon. For you, for you, I have tempted the dangers of guilt; for you, I have trembled and wept; and, believe it, for you I will bear to die.” “Then give yourself to me: this very hour be mine.” “And I am yours for ever: but it must be your own free act and deed.” “Fear not; Lady Margaret is in my power; I am appointed to an interview with her to-morrow; and your aunt dares not refuse you, if you say that you will see me. It is on your firmness I rely: be prudent: it is but of late I counsel it. Deceit is indeed foreign to my nature; but what disguise would I not assume to see you?”
O’Kelly interrupted this conference by whispering something in his ear.—“I will attend her instantly.” “Whom?” said Calantha. “Oh no one.” “Ah speak truly: tell me what mean those words—those mysterious looks: you smile: that moon bears witness against you; tell me all.” “I will trust you,” said Glenarvon. “Oh, my Lord, for God’s sake,” said O’Kelly interfering “remember your vows, I humbly entreat.” “Hear me,” said Glenarvon, in an authoritative tone, repulsing him. “What are you all without me? Tremble then at daring to advise, or to offend me. Lady Avondale is mine; we are but one, and she shall know my secret, though I were on the hour betrayed.” “My Lady you are lost,” said the man, “if you do not hasten home; you are watched: I do implore you to return to the castle.” Lord Glenarvon reluctantly permitted her to leave him; he promised to see her on the following morning; and she hastened home.
CHAPTER XXX.
Unable to rest, Calantha wrote during the whole of the night; and in the morning, she heard that the Duke was in possession of her letter. Lady Margaret entered, and informed her of this.
She also stated that the note would soon be returned into her own hands, and that this might convince her that although much might be suspected from its contents, neither herself nor the Duke were of opinion that Lord Avondale should at present be informed of the transaction. While Lady Margaret was yet speaking, the Duke, opening the door, with a severe countenance approached Calantha, and placing the letter to Lord Glenarvon upon the table, assured her, with coldness, that he considered her as her own mistress, and should not interfere. Lady Margaret without a word being uttered on her part, left the room.
As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal, and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,” continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination, that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said, “to exceeding low spirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father, an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it? Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart, that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale a noble choice? What quality is there, whether of person or of mind, in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge; but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child. No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or support me; but on my knees here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to me: I am very miserable.”
“Consent to see him no more. Say it, my child, and all shall be forgotten—I will forgive you.”—“I must see him once more—ah! once more; and if he consents, I will obey.”—“Good God! do I live to hear such words? It is then to Lord Glenarvon’s mercy, and to no effort of your own, that I am to owe your amendment? See him then, but do it in defiance of my positive commands:—see him, Calantha; but the vengeance of an offended God, the malediction of a father fall on thee for thy disobedience:—see him if it be thy mad resolve; but meet my eyes no more. A lover may be found at any time; but a father, once offended, is lost for ever: his will should be sacred; and the God of Heaven may see fit to withdraw his mercy from a disobedient child.” The Duke, as he spoke these words, trembling with passion, and darting an angry eye upon Calantha, left her. The door closed. She stood suspended—uncertain how to act.—
At length recovering, she seized a pen, and wrote to Glenarvon.—“I am miserable; but let me, at all events, spare you. Come not to the Castle. Write to me: it is all I ask. I must quit you for ever. Oh, Glenarvon, I must indeed see you no more; or involve all whom I love, and yourself who art far dearer, in my disgrace. Let me hear from you immediately. You must decide for me: I have no will on earth but yours—no hope but in the continuance of your love. Do not call me weak. Write to me: say you approve; for if you do not, I cannot obey.”
Having sent her letter with some fear, she went to Mrs. Seymour, who was far from well, and had been some days confined to her room. She endeavoured to conceal from her what had passed in the morning respecting her father. Mrs. Seymour spoke but little to her, she seemed unequal to the task imposed upon her by others, of telling Calantha that which she knew would cause her pain. She was dreadfully agitated, and, holding her niece’s hand, seemed desirous she should not leave her for any length of time.