To that heartless mass of affectation, to that compound of every new and
every old absurdity, to that subservient spiritless world of fashion,
Lady Avondale was now for the first time introduced. It burst at once
upon her delighted view, like a new paradise of unenjoyed sweets—like
a fairy kingdom peopled with ideal inhabitants. Whilst she resided at
Monteith and Castle Delaval, she had felt an eager desire to improve her
mind; study of every sort was her delight, for he who instructed her was
her lover—her husband; one smile, from him could awaken every energy—one
frown, repress every feeling of gaiety, for every word he uttered amused
and pleased; she learned with more aptness than a school-boy; and he who
wondered at the quickness of his pupil, forgot to ascribe her exertions
and success to the power which alone occasioned them—a power which
conquers every difficulty and endures every trial.
Arrived in that gay city, that fair mart where pleasure and amusement
gather around their votaries,—where incessant hurry after novelty employs
every energy, and desire of gaiety fills every hour, every feeling
and every thought, Calantha hailed every new acquaintance—every new
amusement; and her mind unpolished and ignorant, opened with admiration
and wonder upon so new, so diversified a scene. To the language of praise
and affection, she had been used; to unlimited indulgence and liberty,
she was accustomed; but the soft breathing voice of flattery, sounded
to her ear far sweeter, than any other more familiar strain; though
often, in the midst of its blandishments, she turned away to seek for
Lord Avondale’s approbation.
Calantha was happy before; but now it was like a dream of enchantment;
and her only regret was that her husband seemed not to partake as much,
as she could have wished in her delight. Yet he knew the innocence of
her heart, the austerity with which she shrunk from the bare thought
of evil; and he had trusted her even in the lion’s den, so certain
was he of her virtue, and attachment. Indeed, Lord Avondale, though
neither puffed with vanity, nor overbearing with pride, could not but
be conscious, as he looked around, that both in beauty of person, in
nobility of parentage, and more than these, in the impassioned feelings
of an uncorrupted heart, and the rich gifts of a mind enlightened by
wisdom and study,—none were his superiors, and very few his equals;
and if his Calantha could have preferred the effeminate and frivolous
beings who surrounded her, to his sincere and strong attachment, would
she be worthy, in such case, of a single sigh of regret or the smallest
struggle to retain her!—No:—he was convinced that she would not; and,
as in word and deed, he was faithful to her, he feared not to let her
take the course which others trod, or enjoy the smiles of fortune, while
youth and happiness were in her possession.
The steed that never has felt the curb, as it flies lightly and wildly
proud of its liberty among its native hills and valleys, may toss its
head and plunge as it snuffs the air and rejoices in its existence,
while the tame and goaded hack trots along the beaten road, starting
from the lash under which it trembles and stumbling and falling, if
not constantly upheld.—Now see the goal before her. Calantha starts for
the race. Nor curb, nor rein have ever fettered the pupil of nature—the
proud, the daring votress of liberty and love. What though she quit the
common path, if honour and praise accompany her steps, and crown her with
success, shall he who owns her despise her? or must he, can he, mistrust
her? He did not; and the high spirits of uncurbed youth were in future
her only guide—the gayest therefore, where all were gay—the kindest, for
excess of happiness renders every heart kind. In a few months after Lady
Avondale’s arrival in London, she was surrounded, as it appeared, by
friends who would have sacrificed their lives and fortunes to give her
pleasure. Friends!—it was a name she was in the habit of giving to the
first who happened to please her fancy. This even was not required: the
frowns of the world were sufficient to endear the objects it censures to
her affection; and they who had not a friend, and deserved not to have
one, were sure, without other recommendation to find one in Calantha.
All looked fresh, beautiful and new to her eyes; every person she met
appeared kind, honourable and sincere; and every party brilliant; for
her heart, blest in itself reflected its own sunshine around.
Mrs. Seymour, after her arrival in town was pleased to see Calantha
so happy. No gloomy fear obtruded itself; she saw all things with the
unclouded eye of virtue; yet when she considered how many faults, how
many imprudences, her thoughtless spirits might lead her to commit,
she trembled for her; and once when Calantha boasted of the extacy she
enjoyed—“long may that innocent heart feel thus,” she said, “my only,
my beloved niece; but whilst the little bark is decked with flowers, and
sails gaily in a tranquil sea, steer it steadily, remembering that rough
gales may come and we should ever be prepared.” She spoke with an air
of melancholy: she had perhaps, herself, suffered from the goodness and
openness of her heart; but whatever the faults and sorrows into which
she had fallen, no purer mind ever existed than hers—no heart ever felt
more strongly.
The affectation of generosity is common; the reality is so rare, that its
constant and silent course passes along unperceived, whilst prodigality
and ostentation bear away the praise of mankind.—Calantha was esteemed
generous; yet indifference for what others valued, and thoughtless
profusion were the only qualities she possessed. It is true that the
sufferings of others melted a young and ardent heart into the performance
of many actions which would never have occurred to those of a colder
and more prudent nature. But was there any self-denial practised; and
was not she, who bestowed, possessed of every luxury and comfort, her
varying and fanciful caprices could desire! Never did she resist the
smallest impulse or temptation. If to give had been a crime, she had
committed it; for it gave her pain to refuse, and she knew not how to
deprive herself of any gratification. She lavished, therefore, all she
had, regardless of every consequence; but happily for her, she was placed
in a situation which prevented her from suffering as severely for her
faults, as probably she deserved.
Two friends now appeared to bless her further, as she thought, by their
affection and confidence—Lady Mandeville, and Lady Augusta Selwyn. The
former she loved; the latter she admired. Lord Avondale observed her
intimacy with Lady Mandeville with regret; and once, though with much
gentleness, reproved her for it. “Henry,” she replied, “say not one word
against my beautiful, though perhaps unfortunate friend: spare Lady
Mandeville; and I will give you up Lady Augusta Selwyn; but remember
the former is unprotected and unhappy.”
Mrs. Seymour was present when Lord Avondale had thus ventured to hint his
disapprobation of Calantha’s new acquaintance.—“Say at once, that Calantha
shall not see any more of one whom you disapprove:—her own character
is not established. Grace and manner are prepossessing qualities; but
it is decorum and a rational adherence to propriety which alone can
secure esteem. Tell me not of misfortunes,” continued Mrs. Seymour, with
increasing zeal in the good cause, and turning from Lord Avondale to
Calantha. “A woman who breaks through the lesser rules which custom and
public opinion have established, deserves to lose all claim to respect;
and they who shrink not at your age, from even the appearance of guilt,
because they dread being called severe and prudish, too generally follow
the steps of the victims their false sentiments of pity have induced
them to support. Lord Avondale” continued she, with more of warmth than
it was her custom to shew—“you will lament, when it is too late, the
ruin of this child. Those who now smile at Calantha’s follies will soon
be the first to frown upon her faults. She is on the road to perdition;
and now is the moment, the only moment perhaps, in which to check her
course. You advise:—I command. My girls at least, shall not associate
with Lady Mandeville, whom no one visits. Lady Avondale of course is
her own mistress.”
Piqued at Mrs. Seymour’s manner, Calantha appealed to her husband: “and
shall I give up my friend, because she has none but me to defend her?
Shall my friendship—” “Alas Calantha,” said Lord Avondale, “you treat
the noblest sentiment of the heart as a toy which is to be purchased
to-day, and thrown aside to-morrow. Believe me, friendship is not to be
acquired by a few morning visits; nor is it to be found, though I fear
it is too often lost, in the crowd of fashion.” He spoke this mournfully.
The ready tears trembled in Lady Avondale’s eyes.—“I will see no more of
her, if it gives you pain. I will never visit her again.”—Lord Avondale
could not bear to grieve her.
A servant entered with a note, whilst they were yet together:—a crimson
blush suffused Calantha’s cheeks. “I see” said Lord Avondale smiling,
as if fearful of losing her confidence,—“it is from your new friend.”
It was so:—she had sent her carriage with a request that Lady Avondale
would immediately call upon her.—She hesitated; looked eagerly for a
permission, which was too soon granted; and, without making any excuse,
for she had not yet learned the art, she hastened from the lowering eyes
of the deeply offended Mrs. Seymour.