There is nothing so difficult to describe as happiness. Whether some
feeling of envy enters into the mind upon hearing of it, or whether it is
so calm, so unassuming, so little ostentatious in itself, that words give
an imperfect idea of it, I know not. It is easier to enjoy it, than to
define it. It springs in the heart, and shews itself on the countenance;
but it shuns all display; and is oftener found at home, when home has
not been embittered by dissensions, suspicions and guilt, than any where
else upon earth. Yes, it is in home and in those who watch there for us.
Miserable is the being, who turns elsewhere for consolation! Desolate
is the heart which has broken the ties that bound it there.
Calantha was happy; her home was blessed; and in Lord Avondale’s society
every hour brought her joy. Perhaps the feelings which, at this time
united them, were too violent—too tumultuous. Few can bear to be thus
loved—thus indulged: very few minds are strong enough to resist it.
Calantha was utterly enervated by it; and when the cares of life first
aroused Lord Avondale, and called him from her, she found herself unfit
for the new situation she was immediately required to fill. When for a few
hours he left her, she waited with trembling anxiety for his return; and
though she murmured not at the necessary change, her days were spent in
tears, and her nights in restless agitation. He more than shared in her
distress: he even encouraged the excess of sensibility which gave rise
to it; for men, whilst they love, think every new caprice and weakness
in the object of it but a new charm; and whilst Calantha could make him
grave or merry—or angry or pleased, just as it suited her, he pardoned
every omission—he forgave every fault.
Used to be indulged and obeyed, she was not surprised to find him a
willing slave; but she had no conception that the chains he now permitted
to be laid upon him, were ever to be broken; and tears and smiles, she
thought, must, at all times, have the power over his heart which they
now possessed. She was not mistaken:—Lord Avondale was of too fine a
character to trifle with the affections he had won; and Calantha had too
much sense and spirit to wrong him. He looked to his home therefore for
comfort and enjoyment. He folded to his bosom the only being upon earth,
for whom he felt one sentiment of passion or of love. Calantha had not
a thought that he did not know, and share: his heart was as entirely
open, as her own.
Was it possible to be more happy? It was; and that blessing too, was
granted. Lady Avondale became a mother:—She gave to Avondale, the dearest
gift a wife can offer—a boy, lovely in all the grace of childhood—whose
rosy smiles, and whose infant caresses, seemed even more than ever to
unite them together. He was dear to both; but they were far dearer to
each other. At Allenwater, in the fine evenings of summer, they wandered
out upon the mountains, and saw not in the countenance of the villagers
half the tenderness and happiness they felt themselves. They uttered
therefore no exclamations upon the superior joy of honest industry:—a
cottage offered nothing to their view, which could excite either envy or
regret:—they gave to all, and were loved by all; but in all respects they
felt themselves as innocent, and more happy than those who surrounded
them.
In truth, the greater refinement, the greater polish the mind and manner
receive, the more exquisite must be the enjoyment the heart is capable
of obtaining. Few know how to love:—it is a word which many misuse; but
they who have felt it, know that there is nothing to compare with it
upon earth. It cannot however exist if in union with guilt. If ever it
do spring up in a perverted heart, it constitutes the misery that heart
deserves:—it consumes and tortures, till it expires. Even, however,
when lawful and virtuous, it may be too violent:—it may render those
who are subject to it, negligent of other duties, and careless of other
affections: this in some measure was the case of Lord and Lady Avondale.
From Allenwater, Lord and Lady Avondale proceeded to Monteith, an estate
of Lord Avondale’s, where his Aunt Lady Mowbray and his only sister Lady
Elizabeth Mowbray resided. Sir Richard and Lady Mowbray had never had
any children, but Elizabeth and Lord Avondale were as dear to them, and
perhaps dearer than if they had been their own. The society at Monteith
was large. There pleasure and gaiety and talent were chiefly prised and
sought after, while a strong party spirit prevailed. Lady Monteith, a
woman of an acute and penetrating mind, had warmly espoused the cause
of the ministry of the day. Possessed of every quality that could most
delight in society,—brilliant, beautiful and of a truly masculine
understanding, she was accurate in judgment, and at a glance could
penetrate the secrets of others; yet was she easily herself deceived.
She had a nobleness of mind which the intercourse with the world and
exposure to every temptation, had not been able to destroy. Bigotted
and prejudiced in opinions which early habit had consecrated, she was
sometimes too severe in her censures of others.
At Castle Delaval, the society was even too refined; and a slight tinge
of affectation might, by those who were inclined to censure, be imputed
to it. Though ease was not wanting, there was a polish in manner, perhaps
in thought, which removed the general tone somewhat too far from the
simplicity of nature; sentiment, and all the romance of virtue, was
encouraged.
At Monteith, on the contrary, this over refinement was the constant
topic of ridicule. Every thought was there uttered, and every feeling
expressed:—there was neither shyness, nor reserve, nor affectation. Talent
opposed itself to talent with all the force of argument.—The loud laugh
that pointed out any new folly, or hailed any new occasion of mirth, was
different from the subdued smile, and gentle hint to which Calantha had
been accustomed. Opinions were there liberally discussed; characters
stripped of their pretences; and satire mingled with the good humour,
and jovial mirth, which on every side abounded.
She heard and saw every thing with surprise; and though she loved and
admired the individuals, she felt herself unfit to live among them. There
was a liberality of opinion and a satiric turn which she could not at
once comprehend; and she said to herself, daily, as she considered those
around her—“They are different from me.—I can never assimilate myself
to them: I was every thing in my own family; and I am nothing here.”
What talents she had, were of a sort they could not appreciate; and all
the defects were those which they most despised. The refinement, the
romance, the sentiment she had imbibed, appeared in their eyes assumed
and unnatural; her strict opinions perfectly ridiculous; her enthusiasm
absolute insanity; and the violence of her temper, if contradicted
or opposed, the pettishness of a spoiled and wayward child. Yet too
indulgent, too kind to reject her, they loved her, they caressed her,
they bore with her petulance and mistakes. It was, however, as a child
they considered her:—they treated her as one not arrived at maturity of
judgment.
Her reason by degrees became convinced by the arguments which she
continually heard; and all that was spoken at random, she treasured up
as truth: even whilst vehemently contending and disputing in defence of
her favourite tenets, she became of another opinion. So dangerous is
a little knowledge—so unstable is violence. Her soul’s immortal hopes
seemed to be shaken by the unguarded jests of the profane, who casually
visited at Monteith, or whom she met with elsewhere:—she read till she
confounded truth and falsehood, nor knew any longer what to believe:—she
heard folly censured till she took it to be criminal; but crime she saw
tolerated if well concealed. The names she had set in her very heart
as pure and spotless, she heard traduced and vilified:—indignantly she
defended them with all the warmth of ardent youth:—they were proved
guilty; she wept in agony, she loved them not less, but she thought less
favourably of those who had undeceived her.
The change in Calantha’s mind was constant—was daily: it never ceased—it
never paused; and none marked its progress, or checked her career. In
emancipating herself from much that was no doubt useless, she stripped
herself by degrees of all, till she neither feared, nor cared, nor knew
any longer what was, from what was not.
Nothing gives greater umbrage than a misconception and mistaken
application of tenets and opinions which were never meant to be thus
understood and acted upon. Lady Mowbray, a strict adherent to all customs
and etiquettes, saw with astonishment in Calantha a total disregard of
them; and her high temper could ill brook such a defect. Accustomed to the
gentleness of Elizabeth, she saw with indignation the liberty her niece
had assumed. It was not for her to check her; but rigidity, vehemence
in dispute, and harsh truths, at times too bitterly expressed on both
sides, gave an appearance of disunion between them, which happily was
very far from being real, as Calantha loved and admired Lady Mowbray
with the warmest affection.
Lord Avondale, in the mean time, solely devoted to his wife, blinded
himself to her danger. He saw not the change a few months had made, or
he imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for himself. He thought others
harsh to what he regarded as the mere thoughtlessness of youth; and,
surrendering himself wholly to her guidance, he chided, caressed and
laughed with her in turn. “I see how it is Henry,” said Sir Richard,
before he left Ireland,—“you are a lost man; I shall leave you another
year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by that time all this nonsense will
be over. I love you the better for it, however, my dear boy;—a soldier
never looks so well, to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty woman,
provided he does his duty abroad, as well as at home, and that praise
every one must give you.”