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.” CHAPTER LXXXVI. The convulsive sobs of real agony, the eloquence which despair and affection create in all, the pleadings of his own kind and generous heart were vain. He raised her senseless from the earth; he placed her upon a couch; and without daring to look upon her, as he extricated his hand from the strong grasp of terror, he fled from her apartment. Mrs. Seymour had waited to see him; and, when he had quitted her niece’s room, she arrested him as he would have hastened by her, at the head of the stairs. Her ill state of health, and deep anxiety, had enfeebled her too much to endure the shock of hearing his irrevocable intention. He knew this, and wished to break it to her gently. She pressed his hand; she looked upon his countenance. All a mother’s heart spoke in those looks. Was there a hope yet left for her unhappy niece? “Oh, if there yet be hope, speak, Lord Avondale; spare the feelings of one who never injured you; look in that face and have mercy, for in it there is all the bitterness of despair.” He sought for expressions that might soften the pang—he wished to give her hope; but too much agitated himself to know what he then said: “I am resolved—I am going immediately,” he said, and passed her by in haste. He saw not the effect of his words—he heard not the smothered shriek of a heart-broken parent.