Upon alighting from his horse, he had enquired for Lady Margaret Buchanan; before she was prepared to receive him, the papers were delivered into his hands; he gave them to O’Kelly; and after paying a shorter visit to Lady Margaret than at first he had intended, he returned to the inn at Belfont, to peruse them. First however he looked upon the broach, and taking up the ring, he pressed it to his lips and sighed, for he remembered it and her to whom it had been given. Upon this emerald ring, the words: “Eterna fede,” had been inscribed. He had placed it upon his little favourite’s hand, in token of his fidelity, when first he had told her of his love; time had worn off and defaced the first impression; and “Eterno dolor,” had been engraved by her in its place—thus telling in few words the whole history of love—the immensity of its promises—the cruelty of its disappointment.
Calantha was preparing to answer Glenarvon’s letter: her whole soul was absorbed in grief, when Sophia entered and informed her that the Admiral was arrived. It was, she knew, his custom to come and go without much ceremony; but his sudden presence, and at such a moment, overpowered her. Perhaps too, her husband might be with him! she fell: Sophia called for assistance. “Good God! what is the matter?” she said, “You have just kilt my lady,” said the nurse; “but she’ll be better presently: let her take her way—let her take her way.” And before Calantha could compose herself, Sir Richard was in her room. She soon saw by his hearty open countenance, that he was perfectly ignorant of all that had occurred; and to keep him so, was now her earnest endeavour. But she was unused to deceit: all her attempts at it were forced: it was not in her nature; and pride alone, not better feeling prevented its existence.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Sir Richard apologized for his abrupt appearance; and told Calantha that he had been with Lord Avondale to visit his relations at Monteith, where he had left him employed, as he said, from morning till night, with his troops in quelling disturbances and administering justice, which he performed but ill, having as he expressed it, too kind a heart. He then assured her that her husband had promised to meet him the present day at the castle, and enquired of her if she knew wherefore his return had been delayed. She in reply informed him, that he had no intention of joining them, and even produced his last cold letter, in which he told her that she might visit him at Allenwater, at the end of the month, with the children, if all continued tranquil in those quarters. She spoke this in an embarrassed manner; her colour changed repeatedly; and her whole appearance was so dissimilar from that to which the Admiral had been accustomed, that he could not but observe it.
Sir Richard, having with seeming carelessness, repeated the words, “He’ll be here this week that’s certain,” now addressed himself to the children, telling Harry Mowbray the same, “And perhaps he’ll bring you toys.” “He’ll bring himself,” said the child, “and that’s better.” “Right, my gallant boy,” returned the Admiral; “and you are a fine little fellow for saying so.” Thus encouraged, the child continued to prattle. “I want no toys now, uncle Richard. See I have a sword, and a seal too. Will you look at the impression:—the harp means Ireland: ‘Independence’ is the motto; we have no crown; we want no kings.” “And who gave you this seal?” said Sir Richard, fiercely. “Clarence Glenarvon,” replied the boy, with a smile of proud exultation. “D——n your sword and your seal,” said the Admiral. “I like no rebel chiefs, not I;” and he turned away. “Are you angry with me, uncle Richard?” “No, I am sick, child—I have the head ache.” The Admiral had observed Calantha’s agitation, and noted the boy’s answers; for he left the room abruptly, and was cold and cross the rest of the day.
Colonel Donallan having invited the whole family and party, to his seat at Cork, Lady Trelawny and the rest of the guests now left the castle. It was possibly owing to this circumstance that the Admiral, who was not a remarkably keen observer, had opportunity and leisure to watch Calantha’s conduct. In a moment she perceived the suspicion that occurred; but as he was neither very refined, nor very sentimental, it occurred without one doubt of her actual guilt, or one desire to save her from its consequences:—it occurred with horror, abhorrence, and contempt. Unable to conceal the least thing, or to moderate his indignation, he resolved, without delay, to seize the first opportunity of taxing her with her ill conduct. In the meantime she felt hardened and indifferent; and, instead of attempting to conciliate, by haughty looks and a spirit of defiance, she rendered herself hateful to every observer. That compassion, which is sometimes felt and cherished for a young offender, could not be felt for her; nor did she wish to inspire it. Desperate and insensible, she gloried in the cause of her degradation; and the dread of causing her aunt’s death, and casting disgrace upon her husband’s name, alone retained her one hour from Glenarvon.
On the very day of the Admiral’s arrival, he heard enough concerning Calantha to excite his most vehement indignation; and at the hour of dinner, therefore, as he passed her, he called her by a name too horrible to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-room; and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. “One still there is,” she said, “who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha.” Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom, and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too, inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now must consider herself wholly unfit.
But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child’s. “My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his mother.” And she stood uncertain how to act. Mrs. Seymour, to her extreme astonishment, was the only person who interrupted these reflections. She was the last she had expected to do so. She had read in the well-known lineaments of Calantha’s face:—that face which, as a book, she had perused from infancy, some desperate project:—the irritation, the passionate exhibition of grief was past—she was calm. Sophia, at Mrs. Seymour’s request, had therefore written to Calantha. She now gave her the letter. But it was received with sullen pride:—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” she said, and left the room. Calantha never looked at her, or she might have seen that she was agitated; but the words—“Read this, Lady Avondale,” repressed all emotion in her. It was long before she could bring herself to open Sophia’s letter. A servant entered with dinner for her. “The Admiral begs you will drink a glass of wine,” he said. She made no answer; but desired her maid to take it away, and leave her. She did not even perceive that Mac Allain, who was the bearer of this message, was in tears.
Sophia’s letter was full of common-place truisms, and sounding periods—a sort of treatise upon vice, beginning with a retrospect of Calantha’s past life, and ending with a cold jargon of worldly considerations. A few words, written in another hand, at the conclusion, affected her more:—they were from her aunt, Mrs. Seymour. “You talk of leaving us, of braving misfortunes, Lady Avondale,” she said: “you do not contemplate, you cannot conceive, the evils you thus deride. I know;—yes, well I know, you will not be able to bear up under them. Ah! believe me, Calantha, guilt will make the proudest spirit sink, and your courage will fail you at the moment of trial. Why then seek it?—My child, time flies rapidly, and it may no longer be permitted you to return and repent. You now fly from reflection; but it will overtake you when too late to recall the emotions of virtue. Ah! remember the days of your childhood; recollect the high ideas you had conceived of honor, purity and virtue:—what disdain you felt for those who willingly deviated from the line of duty:—how true, how noble, how just were all your feelings. You have forsaken all; and you began by forsaking him who created and protected you! What wonder, then, that having left your religion and your God, you have abandoned every other tie that held you back from evil! Say, where do you mean to stop? Are you already guilty in more than thought?—No, no; I will never believe it; but yet, even if this were so, pause before you cast public dishonor upon your husband and innocent children. Oh! repent, repent, it is not yet too late.”
“It is too late,” said Calantha, springing up, and tearing the letter: “it is too late;” and nearly suffocated with the agony of her passionate grief. She gasped for breath. “Oh! that it were not. I cannot—I dare not stay to meet the eyes of an injured husband, to see him unsuspicious, and know that I have betrayed him. This is too hard to bear:—a death of torture is preferable to a continuance of this; and then to part, my aunt knows not, nor cannot even conceive, the torture of that word. She never felt what I do—she knows not what it is to love, and leave.... These words comprise every thing, the extremes of ecstacy and agony. Oh! who can endure it. They may tear my heart to pieces; but never hope that I will consent to leave Glenarvon.”