It was at Allanwater, a small villa amidst the mountains, in the county
of Leitrim, that Lord and Lady Avondale passed the first months of
their marriage. This estate had been settled upon Sir Richard Mowbray,
during his lifetime, by his brother, the late Earl of Avondale. It was
cheerful, though retired; and to Calantha’s enchanted eyes, appeared
all that was most romantic and beautiful upon earth. What indeed had not
appeared beautiful to her in the company of the man she loved! Every one
fancies that there exists in the object of their peculiar admiration a
superiority over others. Calantha perhaps was fully justified in this
opinion. Lord Avondale displayed even in his countenance the sensibility
of a warm, ardent and generous character. He had a distinguished and
prepossessing manner, entirely free from all affectation. It is seldom
that this can be said of any man, and more seldom of one possessed of
such singular beauty of person. He appeared indeed wholly to forget
himself; and was ever more eager in the interests of others than his
own. Many there are, who, though endowed with the best understandings,
have yet an inertness, an insensibility to all that is brilliant and
accomplished; and who, though correct in their observations, yet fatigue
in the long intercourse of life by the sameness of their thoughts. Lord
Avondale’s understanding, however, fraught as it was with knowledge,
was illumined by the splendid light of genius, yet not overthrown by its
force. Of his mind, it might be truly said, that it did not cherish one
base, one doubtful or worldly feeling. He was so sincere that, even in
conversation, he never mis-stated, or exaggerated a fact. He saw at a
glance the faults of others; but his extreme good nature and benevolence
prevented his taking umbrage at them. He was, it is true, of a hot and
passionate temper, and if once justly offended, firm in his resolve,
and not very readily appeased; but he was too generous to injure or to
hate even those who might deserve it. When he loved, and he never really
loved but one, it was with so violent, so blind a passion, that he might
be said to doat upon the very errors of the girl to whom he was thus
attached. To the society of women he had been early accustomed; but had
suffered too much from their arts, and felt too often the effects of their
caprices, to be easily made again their dupe and instrument. Of beauty
he had ofttimes been the willing slave. Strong passion, opportunity,
and entire liberty of conduct, had, at an early period, thrown him into
its power. His profession, and the general laxity of morals, prevented
his viewing his former conduct in the light in which it appeared to his
astonished bride; but when she sighed, because she feared that she was
not the first who had subdued his affections, he smilingly assured her,
that she should be the last—that no other should ever be dear to him
again.
Calantha, in manner, in appearance, in every feeling, was but a child.
At one hour, she would look entranced upon Avondale, and breath vows of
love and tenderness; at another, hide from his gaze, and weep for the
home she had left. At one time she would talk with him and laugh from
the excess of gaiety she felt; at another, she would stamp her foot
upon the ground in a fit of childish impatience, and exclaiming, “You
must not contradict me in any thing,” she would menace to return to her
father, and never see him more.
If Lord Avondale had a defect, it was too great good nature, so that
he suffered his vain and frivolous partner, to command, and guide, and
arrange all things around him, as she pleased, nor foresaw the consequence
of her imprudence, though too often carried to excess. With all his
knowledge, he knew not how to restrain; and he had not the experience
necessary to guide one of her character:—he could only idolize; he left
it to others to censure and admonish.
It was also for Calantha’s misfortune, that Lord Avondale’s religious
opinions were different from those in which she had been early educated.
It was perhaps to shew him the utility of stricter doctrines, both of
faith and morality, that heaven permitted one so good and noble, as he
was, to be united with one so frail and weak. Those doctrines which he
loved to discuss, and support in speculation, she eagerly seized upon, and
carried into practice; thus proving to him too clearly, their dangerous
and pernicious tendency. Eager to oppose and conquer those opinions in
his wife, which savoured as he thought of bigotry and prudish reserve, he
tore the veil at once from her eyes, and opened hastily her wondering mind
to a world before unknown. He foresaw not the peril to which he exposed
her:—he heeded not the rapid progress of her thoughts—the boundless
views of an over-heated imagination. At first she shrunk with pain and
horror, from every feeling which to her mind appeared less chaste, less
pure, than those to which she had long been accustomed; but when her
principles, or rather her prejudices, yielded to the power of love, she
broke from a restraint too rigid, into a liberty the most dangerous from
its novelty, its wildness and its uncertainty.
The monastic severity which she had imposed upon herself, from exaggerated
sentiments of piety and devotion, gave way with the rest of her former
maxims.—She knew not where to pause, or rest; her eyes were dazzled,
her understanding bewildered; and she viewed the world, and the new form
which it wore before her, with strange and unknown feelings, which she
could neither define, nor command.
Before this period, her eyes had never even glanced upon the numerous
pages which have unfortunately been traced by the hand of profaneness and
impurity; even the more innocent fictions of romance had been withheld
from her; and her mother’s precepts had, in this respect, been attended
to by her with sacred care. Books of every description were now, without
advice, without selection, thrown open before her; horror and astonishment
at first retarded the course of curiosity and interest:—Lord Avondale
smiled; and soon the alarm of innocence was converted into admiration
at the wit, and beauty with which some of these works abounded. Care
is taken when the blind are cured, that the strong light of day should
not fall too suddenly upon the eye; but no caution was observed in at
once removing from Calantha’s mind, the shackles, the superstitions,
the reserve, the restrictions which overstrained notions of purity and
piety had imposed.
Calantha’s lover had become her master; and he could not tear himself
one moment from his pupil. He laughed at every artless or shrewd remark,
and pleased himself with contemplating the first workings of a mind,
not unapt in learning, though till then exclusively wrapt up in the
mysteries of religion, the feats of heroes, the poetry of classic bards,
and the history of nations the most ancient and the most removed.—“Where
have you existed, my Calantha?” he continually said:—“who have been
your companions?” “I had none,” she replied; “but wherever I heard of
cruelty, vice, or irreligion, I turned away.” “Ah, do so still, my best
beloved,” said Lord Avondale, with a sigh. “Be ever as chaste, as frank,
as innocent, as now.” “I cannot,” said Calantha, confused and grieved. “I
thought it the greatest of all crimes to love:—no ceremony of marriage—no
doctrines, men have invented, can quiet my conscience:—I know no longer
what to believe, or what to doubt:—hide me in your bosom:—let us live
far from a world which you say is full of evil:—and never part from
my side; for you are—Henry you are, all that is left me now. I look no
more for the protection of Heaven, or the guidance of parents;—you are
my only hope:—do you preserve and bless me; for I have left every thing
for you.”