And could Calantha see it, and yet live? Could she behold him kind, compassionating, mournful, and yet survive it? No—no frenzy of despair, no racking pains of ill requited love, no, not all that sentiment and romance can paint or fancy, were ever equal to that moment. Before severity, she had not bowed—before contempt, she had not shed one tear—against every menace, she felt hardened; but, in the presence of that pale and altered brow, she sunk at once. With grave but gentle earnestness, he raised her from the earth. She durst not look upon him. She could not stand the reproachful glances of that eye, that dark eye which sometimes softened into love, then flamed again into the fire of resentment. She knelt not for mercy: she prayed not for pardon: a gloomy pride supported her; and the dark frown that lowered over his features was answered by the calm of fixed despair.
They were alone. Lord Avondale, upon arriving, had sought her in her own apartment: he had heard of her illness. The duke had repeatedly implored him to return; he had at length tardily obeyed the summons. After a silence of some moments: “Have I deserved this?” he cried. “Oh Calantha, have I indeed deserved it?” She made no answer to this appeal. “There was a time,” he said, “when I knew how to address you—when the few cares and vexations, that ever intruded themselves, were lightened by your presence; and forgotten in the kindness and sweetness of your conversation. You were my comfort and my solace; your wishes were what I most consulted; your opinions and inclinations were the rule of all my actions. But I wish not to grieve you by reminding you of a state of mutual confidence and happiness which we never more can enjoy.
“If you have a heart,” he continued, looking at her mournfully, “it must already be deeply wounded by the remembrance of your behaviour to me, and can need no reproaches. The greatest to a feeling mind is the knowledge that it has acted unworthily; that it has abused the confidence reposed in it, and blasted the hopes of one, who relied solely upon its affection. You have betrayed me. Oh! Calantha, had you the heart? I will not tell you how by degrees suspicion first entered my mind, till being more plainly informed of the cruel truth, I attempted, but in vain, to banish every trace of you from my affections. I have not succeeded—I cannot succeed. Triumph at hearing this if you will. The habit of years is strong. Your image and that of crime and dishonour, can never enter my mind together. Put me not then to the agony of speaking to you in a manner you could not bear, and I should repent. They say you are not yet guilty; and that the man for whom I was abandoned has generously saved you ... but consider the magnitude of those injuries which I have received; and think me not harsh, if I pronounce this doom upon myself and you:—Calantha, we must part.”
The stern brow gave way before these words; and the paleness of death overspread her form. Scarce could she support herself. He continued: “Whatever it may cost me, and much no doubt I shall suffer, I can be firm. No importunity from others, no stratagems shall prevail. I came, because I would not shrink from the one painful trial I had imposed upon myself. For yours and other’s sakes, I came, because I thought it best to break to you myself my irrevocable determination. Too long I have felt your power: too dearly I loved you, to cast dishonour upon your as yet unsullied name. The world may pardon, and friends will still surround you. I will give you half of all that I possess on earth; and I will see that you are supported and treated with respect. You will be loved and honoured; and, more than this, our children, Calantha, even those precious and dear ties which should have reminded you of your duty to them, if not to me,—yes, even our children, I will not take from you, as long as your future conduct may authorize me in leaving them under your care. I will not tear you from every remaining hope; nor by severity, plunge you into further guilt; but as for him, say only that he for whom I am abandoned was unworthy.”
As he uttered these words, the frenzy of passion for one moment shook his frame. Calantha in terror snatched his hand. “Oh, hear me, hear me, and be merciful!” she cried, throwing herself before his feet.—“For God’s sake hear me.” “The injury was great,” he cried: “the villain was masked; but the remembrance of it is deep and eternal.”
He struggled to extricate his hand from her grasp: it was cold, and trembling.... “Calm yourself,” he at length said, recovering his composure: “these scenes may break my heart, but they cannot alter its purpose. I may see your tears, and while under the influence of a woman I have loved too well, be moved to my own dishonour. I may behold you humble, penitent, wretched, and being man, not have strength of mind to resist.”
“And is there no hope, Avondale?” “None for me,” he replied mournfully: “you have stabbed here even to my very heart of hearts.” “Oh, hear me! look upon me.” “Grant that I yield, wretched woman; say that I forgive you—that you make use of my attachment to mislead my feelings—Calantha, can you picture to yourself the scene that must ensue? Can you look onward into after life, and trace the progress of our melancholy journey through it? Can you do this, and yet attempt to realize, what I shudder even at contemplating? Unblest in each other, solitary, suspicious, irritated, and deeply injured—if we live alone, we shall curse the hours as they pass, and if we rush for consolation into society, misrepresented, pointed at, derided,—oh, how shall we bear it?”
Her shrieks, her tears, now overpowered every other feeling. “Then it is for the last time we meet. You come to tell me this. You think I can endure it?” “We will not endure it,” he cried fiercely, breaking from her. “I wish not to speak with severity; but beware, for my whole soul is in agony, and fierce passion domineers: tempt me not to harm you, my beloved: return to your father: I will write—I will see you again” ... “Oh! leave me not—yet hear me.—I am not guilty—I am innocent—Henry, I am innocent.”
Calantha knelt before him, as she spoke:—her tears choaked her voice. “Yet hear me; look at me once; see, see in this face if it bear traces of guilt. Look, Henry. You will not leave me.” She fell before him; and knelt at his feet. “Do you remember how you once loved me?” she said, clasping his hand in her’s. “Think how dear we have been to each other: and will you now abandon me? Henry, my husband, have you forgotten me? Look at the boy. Is it not yours? Am I not its mother? Will you cause her death who gave him life? Will you cast disgrace upon the mother of your child? Can you abandon me—can you, have you the heart?... Have mercy, oh my God! have mercy.... I am innocent.”