It may easily be supposed that Lady Margaret Buchanan and Mrs. Seymour
had a most cordial dislike for each other. Happily, at present, they
agreed in one point: they were both desirous of rousing Calantha from
the state of despondency into which Lord Avondale’s departure had thrown
her. By both, she was admonished to look happy, and to restrain her
excessive grief. Mrs. Seymour spoke to her of duty and self control. Lady
Margaret sought to excite her ambition and desire of distinction. One
only subject was entirely excluded from conversation: Lord Avondale’s
name was forbidden to be mentioned in Calantha’s presence, and every
allusion to the past to be studiously avoided.
Lady Margaret, however, well aware that whosoever transgressed this
regulation would obtain full power over her niece’s heart, lost no
opportunity of thus gaining her confidence and affection.
Having won, by this artifice, an easy and favorable audience, after two
or three conversations upon the subject the most interesting to Calantha,
she began, by degrees, to introduce the name, and with the name such a
representation of the feelings of her son, as she well knew to be best
calculated to work upon the weakness of a female heart. Far different
were his real feelings, and far different his real conduct from that
which was described to her niece by Lady Margaret. She had written to
him a full account of all that had taken place; but his answer, which
arrived tardily, and, after much delay, had served only to increase that
lady’s ill humour and add to her disappointment. In the letter which
he sent to his mother he openly derided her advice; professed entire
indifference towards Calantha; and said that, indubitably, he could
not waste his thoughts or time in humouring the absurd fancies of a
capricious girl,—that Lord Avondale, or any other, were alike welcome to
her hand,—that, as for himself, the world was wide and contained women
enough for him; he could range amongst those frail and fickle charmers
without subjecting his honour and his liberty to their pleasure; and,
since the lady had already dispensed with the vows given and received at
an age when the heart was pure, he augured ill of her future conduct,
and envied not the happiness of the man it was her present fancy to
select:—he professed his intention of joining the army on the continent;
talked of leaden hail, glory and death! and seemed resolved not to lessen
the merit of any exploits he might achieve by any want of brilliancy in
the colouring and description of them.
Enraged at this answer, and sickening at his conceit, Lady Margaret sent
immediately to entreat, or rather to command, his return. In the mean
time, she talked much to Calantha of his sufferings and despair; and soon
perceiving how greatly the circumstance of Lord Avondale’s consenting
to part from her had wounded her feelings, and how perpetually she
recurred to it, she endeavoured, by the most artful interpretations of
his conduct, to lower him in her estimation. Sarcastically contrasting
his coldness with Buchanan’s enthusiasm: “Your lover,” said she, “is,
without doubt, most disinterested!—His eager desire for your happiness
is shown in every part of his conduct!—Such warmth—such delicacy! How
happy would a girl like my Calantha be with such a husband!—What filial
piety distinguishes the whole of his behaviour!—Obey your father, is
the burthen of his creed! He seems even to dread the warmth of your
affection!—He trembles when he thinks into what imprudence it may carry
you!—Why, he is a perfect model, is he not? But let me ask you, my
dear niece, is love, according to your notions and feelings, thus cool
and considerate?—does it pause to weigh right and duty?—is it so very
rational and contemplative?...” “Yes,” replied Calantha, somewhat piqued.
“Virtuous love can make sacrifices; but, when love is united with guilt,
it becomes selfish and thinks only of the present moment.” “And how, my
little philosopher, did you acquire so prematurely this wonderful insight
into the nature of love?” “By feeling it,” said Calantha, triumphantly;
“and by comparing my own feelings with what I have heard called by that
name in others.”
As she said this, her colour rose, and she fixed her animated blue eyes
full upon Lady Margaret’s face; but vainly did she endeavour to raise
emotion there; that countenance, steady and unruffled, betrayed not even a
momentary flash of anger: her large orbs rolled securely, as she returned
the glance, with a look of proud and scornful superiority. “My little
niece,” said she, tapping her gently on the head, and taking from her
clustering locks the comb that confined them, “my little friend is grown
quite a satirist, and all who have not had, like her, every advantage
of education, are to be severely lashed, I find, for the errors they
may inadvertently have committed.” As she spoke, tears started from her
eyes. Calantha threw herself upon her bosom. “O, my dear aunt,” she said,
“my dearest aunt, forgive me, I entreat you. God knows I have faults
enough myself, and it is not for me to judge of others, whose situation
may have been very different from mine. Is it possible that I should
have caused your tears? My words must, indeed, have been very bitter;
pray forgive me.” “Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, “you are already more
than forgiven; but the tears I shed were not occasioned by your last
speech; though it is true, censure from one’s children, or those one has
ever treated as such, is more galling than from others. But, indeed, my
spirits are much shaken. I have had letters from my son, and he seems
more hurt at your conduct than I expected:—he talks of renouncing his
country and his expectations; he says that, if indeed his Calantha, who
has been the constant object of his thoughts in absence, can have already
renounced her vows and him, he will never intrude his griefs upon her,
nor ever seek to bias her inclinations: yet it is with deep and lasting
regret that he consents to tear you from his remembrance and consign
you to another.”
Calantha signed deeply at this unexpected information. To condemn any one
to the pangs of unrequited love was hard: she had already felt that it was
no light suffering; and Lady Margaret, seeing how her false and artful
representations had worked upon the best feelings of an inexperienced
heart, lost no opportunity of improving and increasing their effect.
These repeated attempts to move Calantha to a determination, which was
held out to her as a virtuous and honourable sacrifice made to duty
and to justice, were not long before they were attended with success.
Urged on all sides continually, and worked upon by those she loved, she
at last yielded with becoming inconsistency; and one evening, when she
saw her father somewhat indisposed, she approached him, and whispered
in his ear, that she had thought better of her conduct, and would be
most happy in fulfilling his commands in every respect. “Now you are a
heroine, indeed,” said Lady Margaret, who had overheard the promise:
“you have shewn that true courage which I expected from you—you have
gained a victory over yourself, and I cannot but feel proud of you.”
“Aye,” thought Calantha, “flattery is the chain that will bind me; gild
it but bright enough, and be secure of its strength: you have found, at
last, the clue; now make use of it to my ruin.”
“She consents,” said Lady Margaret; “it is sufficient; let there be
no delay; let us dazzle her imagination, and awaken her ambition, and
gratify her vanity by the most splendid presents and preparations!”