The consciousness of these feelings, the agitation of her mind, and the dread of Lord Avondale’s return, made her meet Sophia, who now entered her apartment with some coldness. The scene that followed need not be repeated. All that a cold and common-place friend can urge, to upbraid, villify and humiliate, was uttered by Miss Seymour; and all in vain. She left her, therefore, with much indignation; and, seeing that her mother was preparing to enter the apartment she had quitted: “O! go not to her,” she said; “you will find only a hardened sinner; you had best leave her to herself. My friendship and patience are tired out at last; I have forborne much; but I can endure no more. Oh! she is quite lost.” “She is not lost, she is not hardened,” said Mrs. Seymour, much agitated. “She is my own sister’s child: she will yet hear me.”
“Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, advancing, “my child;” and she clasped her to her bosom. She would have turned from her, but she could not. “I am not come to speak to you on any unpleasant subject,” she said. “I cannot speak myself,” answered Calantha, hiding her face, not to behold her aunt: “all I ask of you is not to hate me; and God reward you for your kindness to me: I can say no more; but I feel much.” “You will not leave us, dear child?” “Never, never, unless I am driven from you—unless I am thought unworthy of remaining here.” “You will be kind to your husband, when he returns—you will not grieve him.” “Oh! no, no: I alone will suffer; I will never inflict it upon him; but I cannot see him again; he must not return: you must keep him from me. I never....” “Pause, my Calantha: make no rash resolves. I came here not to agitate, or to reproach. I ask but one promise, no other will I ever exact:—you will not leave us.” This change of manner in her aunt produced the deepest impression upon Lady Avondale. She looked, too, so like her mother, at the moment, that Calantha thought it had been her. She gave her her hand: she could not speak. “And did they tell me she was hardened?” said Mrs. Seymour. “I knew it could not be: my child, my own Calantha, will never act with cruelty towards those who love her. Say only the single words: “I will not leave you,” and I will trust you without one fear.” “I will not leave you!” said Calantha, weeping bitterly, and throwing herself upon her aunt’s bosom. “If it break my heart, I will never leave you, unless driven from these doors!” Little more was said by either of them. Mrs. Seymour was deeply affected, and so was Calantha.
After she had quitted her, not an hour had elapsed, when Sir Richard, without preparation, entered. His presence stifled every good emotion—froze up every tear. Calantha stood before him with a look of contempt and defiance, he could not bear. Happily for her, he was called away, and she retired early to bed. “That wife of Avondale’s has the greatest share of impudence,” said the Admiral, addressing the company, at large, when he returned from her room, “that ever it was my fortune to meet. One would think, to see her, that she was the person injured; and that we were all the agressors. Why, she has the spirit of the very devil in her! but I will break it, I warrant you.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The next morning, regardless of the presence of the nurses and the children, who were in Lady Avondale’s apartment—regardless indeed of any consideration, but that which rage and indignation had justly excited, the Admiral again entered Calantha’s room, and in a high exulting tone, informed her that he had written to hasten her husband’s return. “As to Avondale, d’ye see,” he continued “he is a d——d fine fellow, with none of your German sentiments, not he; and he will no more put up with these goings on, than I shall; nor shall you pallaver him over: for depend upon it, I will open his eyes, unless from this very moment you change your conduct. Yes, my Lady Calantha, you look a little surprised, I see, at hearing good English spoken to you; but I am not one who can talk all that jargon of sensibility, they prate round me here. You have the road open; you are young, and may mend yet; and if you do, I will think no more of the past. And as to you, Mrs. Nurse, see that these green ribbands be doffed. I prohibit Lord Mowbray and Lady Annabel from wearing them. I hate these rebellious party colours. I am for the King, and old England; and a plague on the Irish marauders, and my Lord Glenarvon at the head of them—who will not take ye, let me tell you, Lady fair, for all your advances. I heard him say so myself, aye, and laugh too, when the Duke told him to be off, which he did, though it was in a round about way; for they like here, to press much talk into what might be said in a score of words. So you need not look so mighty proud; for I shall not let you stir from these apartments, do you see, till my nephew comes; and, then, God mend you, or take you; for we will not bear with these proceedings, not we of the navy, whatever your land folks may do.”
“Sir Richard,” said Calantha, “you may spare yourself and me this unkindness,—I leave this house immediately,—I leave your family from this hour; and I will die in the very streets sooner than remain here. Take this,” she said throwing the marriage ring from her hand; “and tell your nephew I never will see him more:—tell him if it is your pleasure that I love another, and had rather be a slave in his service, than Lord Avondale’s wife. I ever hated that name, and now I consider it with abhorrence.” “Your Ladyship’s words are big and mighty,” cried Sir Richard; “but while this goodly arm has a sinew and this most excellent door has a key you shall not stir from hence.” As he yet spoke, he advanced to the door; but she, darting before him, with a celerity he had not expected, left him, exclaiming as she went, “you have driven me to this: tell them you have done it”....
In vain the Admiral urged every one he met to pursue Calantha. The moment had been seized, and no power can withstand, no after attempt can regain the one favourable moment that is thus snatched from fate. The castle presented a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Miss Seymour was indignant; the servants were in commotion; the greatest publicity was given to the event from the ill judged indiscretion of the Admiral. Mrs. Seymour alone, was kept in ignorance; the Duke coldly, in reply to the enquiry of what was to be done, affirmed that no step should be taken unless, of herself, the unhappy Calantha returned to seek the pardon and protection of those friends whom she had so rashly abandoned, and so cruelly misused. Yet, notwithstanding the prohibition every place was searched, every measure to save was thought of, and all without success.
Sir Richard then set down with Annabel in his arms, and the little boy by his side, crying more piteously than the nurse who stood opposite encreasing the general disturbance, by her loud and ill-timed lamentations. “If my Lord had not been the best of husbands, there would have been some excuse for my Lady.” “None Nurse—none whatever;” sobbed forth Sir Richard, in a voice scarcely audible, between passion and vexation. “She was a good mother, poor Lady: that I will say for her.” “She was a d——d wife though,” cried Sir Richard; “and that I must say for her.” After which, the children joining, the cries and sobs were renewed by the nurse, and Sir Richard, with more violence than at first. “I never thought it would have come to this,” said the nurse, first recovering. “Lord ma’am, I knew it would end ill, when I saw those d——d green ribbands”.... “Who would have thought such a pretty looking gentleman would have turned out such a villain!” “He is no gentleman at all,” said Sir Richard angrily. “He is a rebel, an outcast. Shame upon him.” And then again the nurse’s cries checked his anger, and he wept more audibly than before.
“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all others of bitterness. The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware. Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she will yet return.”