What Lord Avondale had said was true.—One image had pursued him in every
change of situation, since he had parted from Calantha; and though he
had scarcely permitted his mind to dwell on hope; yet he felt that,
without her, there was no happiness for him on earth; and he thought that
once united to her, he was beyond the power of sorrow or misfortune.
So chaste, even in thought, she seemed—so frank and so affectionate,
could he be otherwise than happy with such a companion? How then was
he astonished, when, as soon as they were alone, she informed him that,
although she adored him, she was averse to the fetters he was so eager
to impose. How was he struck to find that all the chimerical, romantic
absurdities, which he most despised, were tenaciously cherished by her;
to be told that dear as he was, her freedom was even dearer; that she
thought it a crime to renounce her vows, her virgin vows; and that she
never would become a slave and a wife;—he must not expect it.
Unhappy Avondale! even such an avowal did not open his eyes, or deter him
from his pursuit. Love blinds the wisest: and fierce passion domineers
over reason. The dread of another separation inspired him with alarm.
Agitated—furious—he now combatted every objection, ventured every promise,
and loved even with greater fondness from the increasing dread of again
losing what he had hoped was already his own.—“Men of the world are
without religion,” said Calantha with tears; “Women of the world are
without principle. Truth is regarded by none. I love and honour my God,
even more than I love you; and truth is dearer to me than life. I am not
like those I see:—my education, my habits, my feelings are different;
I am like one uncivilized and savage; and if you place me in society,
you will have to blush every hour for the faults I shall involuntarily
commit. Besides this objection, my temper—I am more violent—Oh that it
were not so; but can I, ought I, to deceive you?”... “You are all that is
noble, frank and generous: you shall guide me,” said Lord Avondale; “and
I will protect you. Be mine:—fear me not:—your principles, I venerate;
your religion I will study—will learn—will believe in.—What more?”
Lord Avondale sought, and won that strange uncertain being, for whom he
was about to sacrifice so much. He considered not the lengthened journey
of life—the varied scenes through which they were to pass; where all
the qualities in which she was wholly deficient would be so often and
so absolutely required—discretion, prudence, firm and steady principle,
obedience, humility.—But to all her confessions and remonstrances, he
replied:—“I love, and you return my passion:—can we be otherwise than
blest! You are the dearest object of my affection, my life, my hope,
my joy. If you can live without me, which I do not believe, I cannot
without you; and that is sufficient. Sorrows must come on all; but united
together we can brave them.—My Calantha you torture me, but to try me.
Were I to renounce you—were I to take you at your word, you, you would
be the first to regret and to reproach me.”—“It is but the name of wife
I hate,” replied the spoiled and wayward child.—“I must command:—my
will.”—“Your will, shall be my law,” said Lord Avondale, as he knelt
before her: “you shall be my mistress—my guide—my monitress—and I, a
willing slave.”—So spoke the man, who, like the girl he addressed, had
died sooner than have yielded up his freedom, or his independence to
another; who, high and proud, had no conception of even the slightest
interference with his conduct or opposition to his wishes; and who at
the very moment that in words he yielded up his liberty, sought only
the fulfilment of his own desire, and the attainment of an object upon
which he had fixed his mind.
The day arrived. A trembling bride, and an impassioned lover faintly
articulated the awful vow. Lord Avondale thought himself the happiest of
men; and Calantha, though miserable at the moment, felt that, on earth,
she loved but him. In the presence of her assembled family, they uttered
the solemn engagement, which bound them through existence to each other;
and though Calantha was deeply affected, she did not regret the sacred
promise she had made.
When Lord Avondale, however, approached to take her from her father’s
arms—when she heard that the carriages awaited, which were to bear them
to another residence, nor love, nor force prevailed. “This is my home,”
she cried: “these are my parents. Share all I have—dwell with me where
I have ever dwelt; but think not that I can quit them thus. No spirit
of coquetry—no petty airs, learned or imagined, suggested this violent
and reiterated exclamation—I will not go.” I will not—was sufficient
as she imagined, to change the most determined character; and when she
found that force was opposed to her violence, terror, nay abhorrence
took possession of her mind; and it was with shrieks of despair she was
torn from her father’s bosom.
“Unhappy Avondale!” said Sophia, as she saw her thus borne away, “may
that violent spirit grow tame, and tractable, and may Calantha at length
prove worthy of such a husband!” This exclamation was uttered with a
feeling which mere interest for her cousin could not have created. In
very truth, Sophia loved Lord Avondale. And Alice MacAllain, who heard the
prayer with surprise and indignation, added fervently:—“that he may make
her happy—that he may know the value of the treasure he possesses—this
is all I ask of heaven.—Oh! my mistress—my protectress—my Calantha—what
is there left me on earth to love, now thou art gone? Whatever they may
say of thy errors even those errors are dearer to my heart, than all
the virtues thou has left behind.”