The habit of years, though broken and interrupted by violent affliction
or sudden prosperity, fails not in the end to resume its influence over
the mind; and the course that was once pursued with satisfaction, though
the tempest of our passions may have hurried us out of it, will be again
resumed, when the dark clouds that gathered over us, have spent their
fury. Even he who is too proud to bow his mind to the inevitable decrees
of an all wise Creator,—who seeks not to be consoled, and turns away
from the voice of piety, even he loses sight at length of the affliction,
upon which his memory has so continually dwelt:—it lessens to his view,
as he journies onward adown the vale of life, and the bright beam of
hope rises at last upon his clouded spirits and exhausted frame.
From a state of despondency and vain regret, in which more than a year
had been passed, the inhabitants of Castle Delaval, by slow degrees,
revived; and the Duke, wearied of a life so gloomy and solitary, summoned,
as before, his friends around him. Lady Margaret, however, was no longer
the gay companion of his morning walks, the life and amusement of his
evening assemblies. The absence of Viviani filled her with anxiety; and
the remembrance of her crimes embittered every hour of her existence.
If she turned her eyes upon Calantha, the dejected expression of that
countenance reproached her for the mother whose life she had shortened,
and whose place she vainly exerted herself to fill; if upon the Duke,
in that care worn cheek and brow of discontent, she was more painfully
reminded of her crime and ingratitude; and even the son for whom so much
had been sacrificed, afforded her no consolation.
Buchanan estranged himself from her confidence, and appeared jealous of
her authority.—He refused to aid her in the sole remaining wish of her
heart; and absolutely declined accepting the hand of Calantha. “Shall
only one will,” he said, “be studied and followed; shall Calantha’s
caprices and desires be daily attended to; and shall I see the best
years of my life pass without pleasure or profit for me? I know—I see
your intention; and, pardon me, dearest mother, if I already bitterly
lament it. Is Calantha a companion fitted for one of my character; and,
even if hereafter it is your resolve to unite me to her, must I now be
condemned to years of inactivity on her account. Give me my liberty; send
me to college, there to finish my education; and permit me to remain in
England for some years.”
Lady Margaret saw, in the cool determined language of her son, that he had
long meditated this escape from her thraldom:—she immediately appeared
to approve his intention—she said that a noble ambition, and all the
highest qualities of the heart and mind were shewn in his present desire;
but one promise she must exact in return for the readiness with which
she intended instantly to accede to his request:—provided he was left
at liberty till a maturer age, would he promise to take no decisive step
of himself, until he had once more seen Calantha after this separation?
To this Buchanan willingly acceded; his plans were soon arranged; and
his departure was fixed for no very distant period.
The morning before he left the castle, Lady Margaret called him to
her room; and taking him and Calantha by the hand, she led them to the
windows of the great gallery. From thence pointing to the vast prospect
of woods and hills, which extended to a distance, the eye could scarcely
reach, “all are yours my children,” she said, “if, obedient to parents
who have only your welfare at heart, you persevere in your intention of
being one day united to each other. Ah! let no disputes, no absence, no
fancies have power to direct you from the fulfilment of this, my heart’s
most fervent wish:—let this moment of parting, obliterate every unkind
feeling, and bind you more than ever to each other. Here, Buchanan,”
continued she, “is a bracelet with your hair: place it yourself around
Calantha’s arm:—she shall wear it till you meet.” The bracelet was
of gold, adorned with diamonds, and upon the clasp, under the initial
letters of both their names, were engraved these words: “_Stesso sangue,
Stessa sorte._” “Take it,” said Buchanan, fastening it upon the arm of
Calantha, “and remember that you are to wear it ever, for my sake.”
At this moment, even he was touched, as he pressed her to his heart, and
remembered her as associated with all the scenes of his happiest days.
Her violence, her caprices, her mad frolics, were forgotten; and as her
tears streamed upon his bosom, he turned away, least his mother should
witness his emotion. Yet Calantha’s tears were occasioned solely by the
thought of parting from one, who had hitherto dwelt always beneath the
same roof with herself; and to whom long habit had accustomed, rather
than attached her.—In youth the mind is so tender, and so alive to sudden
and vivid impressions, that in the moment of separation it feels regret,
and melancholy at estranging itself even from those for whom before it
had never felt any warmth of affection.—Still at the earliest age the
difference is distinctly marked between the transient tear, that falls
for imaginary woe, and the real misery which attends upon the loss of
those who have been closely united to the affections by ties, stronger
and dearer than those of habit.