Love, it might be conjectured, would early shew itself in a character
such as Calantha’s; and love, with all its ardour and all its wildness,
had already subdued her heart. What, though Mrs. Seymour had laid it
down as a maxim, that no one, before she had attained her fourteenth
year, could possibly be in love! What, though Lady Margaret indignantly
asserted, that Calantha could not, and should not, look even at any
other than him for whom her hand was destined! She had looked; she had
seen; and what is more, she believed the impression at this time made
upon her heart was as durable as it was violent.
Sophia Seymour, Mrs. Seymour’s eldest daughter, in a month, nay in a
week, had already discovered Calantha’s secret:—the same feeling for the
same object, had given her an acuteness in this instance, with which
she was not at all times gifted:—She herself loved, and, therefore,
perceived her cousin’s passion. Calantha’s manner immediately confirmed
her in her supposition. She entered one morning into her room;—she saw
the unfinished drawing;—she could not mistake it—that commanding air—that
beaming eye—there was but one whom it could resemble, and that one was
Henry Mowbray, Earl of Avondale. She taxed Calantha bitterly with her
partiality; “But he thinks not of you,” she said, and haughtily left
the room.
Admiral Sir Richard Mowbray was an old and valued friend of the Duke
of Altamonte. He had served with Sir George Buchanan, brother-in-law
to Lady Margaret. He had no children; but his nephew, the young Earl of
Avondale, was, next to his country, the strongest and dearest interest of
his heart. What happiness must the Admiral then have felt when he beheld
his nephew; and found that, in mind and person, he was distinguished by
every fair endowment. He had entered the army young; he now commanded a
regiment: with a spirit natural to his age and character, he had embraced
his father’s profession; like him, he had early merited the honours
conferred upon him. He had sought distinction at the hazard of his life;
but happily for all who knew him well, he had not, like his gallant
father, perished in the hour of danger; but, having seen hard service,
had returned to enjoy, in his own country, the ease, the happiness and
the reputation he so well deserved.
Lord Avondale’s military occupations had not, however, prevented his
cultivating his mind and talents in no ordinary degree; and the real
distinctions he had obtained, seemed by no means to have lessened the
natural modesty of his character. He was admired, flattered, sought
after; and the strong temptation to which his youth had thus early been
exposed, had, in some measure, shaken his principles and perverted his
inclinations.
Happily a noble mind and warm uncorrupted heart soon led him from scenes
of profligacy to a course of life more manly and useful:—deep anxiety
for a bleeding country, and affection for his uncle, restored him to
himself. He quitted London, where upon his first return from abroad he
had for the most part resided, and his regiment being ordered to Ireland,
on account of the growing disaffection in that country, he returned
thither to fulfil the new duty which his profession required. Allanwater
and Monteith, his father’s estates, had been settled upon him; but he
was more than liberal in the arrangements he made for his uncle and the
other branches of his family.
Many an humbler mind had escaped the danger to which Lord Avondale had,
early in life, been exposed;—many a less open character had disguised
the too daring opinions he had once ventured to cherish! But, with an
utter contempt for all hypocrisy and art, with a frankness and simplicity
of character, sometimes observed in men of extraordinary abilities, but
never attendant on the ordinary or the corrupted mind, he appeared to
the world as he really felt, and neither thought nor studied whether
such opinions and character were agreeable to his own vanity, or the
taste of his companions; for whom, however, he was, at all times, ready
to sacrifice his time, his money, and all on earth but his honour and
integrity.
Such was the character of Lord Avondale, imperfectly sketched—but true to
nature.—He, in his twenty-first year, now appeared at Castle Delaval—the
admiration of the large and various company then assembled there.
Flattered, perhaps, by the interest shewn him, but reserved and distant
to every too apparent mark of it, he viewed the motley groupe before
him, as from a superior height, and smiled with something of disdain,
at times, as he marked the affectation, the meanness, the conceit and,
most of all, the heartlessness and cowardice of many of those around
him. Of a morning, he would not unfrequently join Calantha and Sophia
in their walks; of an evening, he would read to the former, or make her
his partner at billiards, or at cards. At such times, Sophia would work
at a little distance; and as her needle monotonously passed the silken
thread through the frame to which her embroidery was fixed, her eyes would
involuntarily turn to where her thoughts, in spite of her endeavours,
too often strayed. Calantha listened to the oft-repeated stories of the
admiral; she heard of his battles, his escapes and his dangers, when
others were weary of the well-known topics; but he was Lord Avondale’s
uncle, and that thought made every thing he uttered interesting to her.
“You love,” said Alice Mac Allain, one day to her mistress, as they
wandered in silence along the banks of the river Elle, “and he who made
you alone can tell to what these madning fires may drive a heart like
yours. Remember your bracelet—remember your promises to Buchanan; and
learn, before it is too late, in some measure to controul yourself, and
disguise your feelings.” Calantha started from Alice; for love, when it
first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that it fears the least breath of
observation, and disguises itself under every borrowed name. “You are
wrong,” said Calantha, “I would not bend my free spirit to the weakness
of which you would accuse me, for all the world can offer; your Calantha
will never acknowledge a master; will never yield her soul’s free and
immortal hopes, to any earthly affection. Fear not, my counsellor, that
I will forsake my virgin vows, or bow my unbroken spirit to that stern
despot, whose only object is power and command.”
As Calantha spoke, Lord Avondale approached, and joined them. The deep
blush that crimsoned over her cheek was a truer answer to her friend’s
accusation than the one she had just uttered.—“Heremon and Inis Tara have
charms for both of you,” he said, smiling:—“you are always wandering
either to or from thence.” “They are our own native mountains,” said
Calantha, timidly;—“the landmarks we have been taught to reverence from
our earliest youth.” “And could you not admire the black mountains
of Morne as well,” he said, fixing his eyes on Calantha,—“my native
mountains?”—“they are higher far than these, and soar above the clouds
that would obscure them.” “They are too lofty and too rugged for such
as we are,” said Calantha. “We may gaze at their height and wonder; but
more would be dangerous.” “The roses and myrtles blossom under their
shade,” said Lord Avondale, with a smile; “and Allanwater, to my mind,
is as pleasant to dwell in as Castle Delaval.” “Shall you soon return
there, my lord,” enquired Calantha. “Perhaps never,” he said, mournfully;
and a tear filled his eye as he turned away, and sought to change the
subject of conversation.
Lady Margaret had spoken to Lord Avondale:—perhaps another had engaged
his affections:—at all events, it seemed certain to Calantha that she
was not the object of his hope or his grief. To have seen him—to have
admired him, was enough for her: she wished not for more than that
privilege; she felt that every affection of her heart was engaged, even
though those affections were unreturned.