“And what detains you in town?” said Gondimar, on the eve of Mrs. Seymour
and Sophia’s departure. “Will this love of gaiety never subside. Tell
me, Lady Avondale, do you believe all that the Duke of Myrtlegrove,
and your more warlike cousin have said to you?—What means the blush on
your indignant cheek? The young duke is more enamoured of the lustre
of his diamond ring and broach, than of the brightest eyes that ever
gazed on him; and though the words glory and renown drop from the mouth
of Buchanan, love, I think, has lost his time in aiming arrows at his
heart. Has he one?—I think not? But who has one in London?” “You have
not assuredly,” said the Count: “and, if you knew the censures that
are every where passed upon you, I think, for Lord Avondale’s sake, you
would regret it.” “I do; but indeed—”
The entrance of Buchanan put a stop to this conversation. “Are you ready?”
he cried. “Ready! I have waited for you three hours: it is five, and you
promised to come before two.” “You would excuse me, I am sure, if you knew
how excessively ill I have been. I am but this moment out of bed. That
accursed hazard kept me up till ten this morning. Once, I sat two days
and nights at it: but it’s no matter.” “You take no care of yourself.—I
wish for my sake you would.” The manner in which Calantha said this, was
most particularly flattering and kind: it was, indeed, ever so; but the
return she met with (like the lady who loved the swine. “Honey,” quoth
she, “thou shalt in silver salvers dine.” “Humph,” quoth he) was most
uncourteous. “Truly I care not if I am knocked on the head to-morrow,”
replied Buchanan. “There is nothing worth living for in life: every thing
annoys me: I am sick of all society, Love, sentiment, is my abhorrence.”
“But driving, dearest Buchanan,—riding,—your mother—your—your cousin.”
“Oh, d..n it; don’t talk about it. It’s all a great bore.”
“And can Lady Avondale endure this jargon?” “What is that Italian here
again?” whispered Buchanan. “But come, let’s go. My horses must not
wait, they are quite unbroke; and the boy can’t hold them. Little Jem
yesterday had his ribs broke; and this youngster’s no hand. Where shall we
drive?” “To perdition,” whispered Gondimar. “Can’t wait,” said Buchanan,
impatiently: and Calantha hurried away.
The curricle was beautiful; the horses fiery; Buchanan in high spirits;
and Calantha—ah must it be confessed?—more elated with this exhibition
through the crowded streets, than she could have been at the most glorious
achievement. “Drive faster,—faster still,” she continually said, to shew
her courage. Alas! real courage delights not in parade; but anything that
had the appearance of risk or danger, delighted Calantha. “Damn it, how
Alice pulls.” “Alice!” said Calantha. “Oh hang it; don’t talk of that.
Here’s Will Rattle, let me speak to him; and Dick, the boxer’s son. Do
you mind stopping? Not in the least.” Saying which they pulled in, as
Buchanan termed it; and a conversation ensued, which amused Calantha
extremely. “How soon shall you be off?” said Will Rattle, as they prepared
to drive on.—“It’s a devilish bore staying in London now,” replied
Buchanan: “only I’ve been commanded to stay,” saying which he smiled,
and turned to Lady Avondale, “or I should have been with my regiment
before this. The moment I am released, however, I shall go there.—Hope
to see you to-night, Will. Mind and bring Charles Turner.—There’s a new
play. Oh I forgot:—perhaps I shan’t be let off; shall I?” “No,” replied
Calantha, extremely pleased at this flattering appeal. Will bowed with
conceit, and off they galloped, Buchanan repeating as they went, “A
damned strange fellow that—cleverer than half the people though, who make
such a noise. I saved his life once in an engagement. Poor Will, he’s
so grateful, he would give all he has for me,—I’ll be d—d if he would
not.” Let this suffice. The drive was not very long; and, the danger of
being overturned excepted, utterly devoid of interest.
Lady Dartford had returned to town. Perhaps no one ever heard that
she had left it: like the rose leaf upon the glass full of water, her
innocent presence made not the slightest difference, nor was her absence
at any time observed. She, however, called upon Calantha, a few moments
after Buchanan had taken her home. Lady Avondale was with her lord, in
the library when she came. “Why did you let her in?” she said rather
crossly to the servant; when another loud rap at the door announced Lady
Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn. Calantha was writing a letter; and
Lord Avondale was talking to her of the arrangements for their departure.
“I wish I ever could see you one moment alone,” he said, “Say I am
coming—or shall not come,” she replied; and during the time she remained
to finish the conversation with her husband, she could not help amusing
herself with the thought of Lady Dartford’s alarm, at finding herself
in the presence of Lady Mandeville, whom she did not visit. “You do not
attend at all,” said Lord Avondale; “you are of no use whatever;” Alas!
he had already found that the mistress of his momentary passion, was not
the friend and companion of his more serious thoughts. Calantha was of
no use to any one. She began to feel the bitterness of this certainty,
but she fled from the reflection with pain.
Eager to amuse Lady Dartford, Lady Augusta, who knew her well, entertained
her till Lady Avondale joined them, with a variety of anecdotes of all
that had taken place since her departure; and, having soon exhausted
other subjects, began upon Calantha herself. “She is positively in love
with Captain Buchanan,” said she. “At every ball he dances with her; at
every supper he is by her side; all London is talking of it. Only think
too how strange, just as he was said to have proposed to Miss Macvicker—a
fortune—twenty thousand a year—a nice girl, who really looks unhappy.
Poor thing, it is very hard on her.—I always feel for girls.” “Come,”
said Lady Mandeville, “last night you know, they did not interchange a
word: he talked the whole evening to that young lady with the singular
name. How I detest gossiping and scandal. Calantha deserves not this.”
“Bless us, how innocent we are all of a sudden,” interrupted Lady Augusta!
“have you any pretentions, dearest lady, to that innoxtious quality? Now
are you not aware that this is the very perfection of the art of making
love—this not speaking? But this is what always comes of those who are
so mighty fond of their husbands. Heavens, how sick I have been of all
the stories of their romantic attachment. There is nothing, my dear,
like Miss Seymour, or making one sick. She always gives me the vapours.”
“Where do you go to-night?” said Lady Dartford, wishing to interrupt a
conversation which gave her but little pleasure. “Oh, to fifty places;
but I came here partly too in the hope of engaging Lady Avondale to
come to me to-night. She is a dear soul, and I do not like her the worse
for shewing a little spirit.” “I cannot,” said Lady Mandeville, “think
there is much in this; a mere caprice, founded on both sides in a little
vanity. After seeing Lord Avondale, I cannot believe there is the smallest
danger for her. Good heavens, if I had possessed such a husband!” “Oh,
now for sentiment,” said Augusta: “and God knows, if I had possessed a
dozen such, I should have felt as I do at this moment. Variety—variety!
Better change for the worse than always see the same object.” “Well,
if you do not allow the merit of Henry Avondale to outweigh this love
of variety, what say you to Mr. Buchanan, being her cousin, brought up
with her from a child.” “Thanks for the hint—you remember the song of
“_Nous nous aimions dès l’enfance
Tête-à-Tête à chaque instant._”
and I am certain, my dear sentimental friend, that
“_A notre place
Vous en auriez fait autant._”
Then going up to the glass Lady Augusta bitterly inveighed against
perverse nature, who with such a warm heart, had given her such an ugly
face. “Do you know,” she said, still gazing upon her uncouth features,
addressing herself to Lady Dartford—“do you know that I have fallen in
love myself, since I saw you;—and with whom do you think?” “I think I
can guess, and shall take great credit to myself, if I am right. Is not
the happy man an author?” said Lady Dartford.—“You have him, upon my
honour—Mr. Clarendon, by all that is wonderful:—he is positively the
cleverest man about town.—Well I am glad to see my affairs also make
some little noise in the world,”—“I can tell you however,” said Lady
Mandeville, “that he is already engaged;—and Lady Mounteagle occupies
every thought of his heart.”
“Good gracious, my dear, living and loving have done but little for you;
and the dead languages prevent your judging of living objects.—Engaged!
you talk of falling in love, as if it were a matrimonial contract
for life. Now don’t you know that every thing in nature is subject to
change:—it rains to-day—it shines to-morrow;—we laugh,—we cry;—and the
thermometer of love rises and falls, like the weather glass, from the
state of the atmosphere:—one while it is at freezing point;—another it
is at fever heat.—How then should the only imaginary thing in the whole
affair—the object I mean which is _always purely ideal_—how should that
remain the same?”
Lady Mandeville smiled a little, and turning her languid blue eyes upon
Lady Dartford, asked her if she were of the christian persuasion? Lady
Dartford was perfectly confounded:—she hesitatingly answered in the
affirmative. Upon which, Lady Augusta fell back in her chair, and laughed
immoderately; but fearful of offending her newly made acquaintance,
observed to her, that she wore the prettiest hat she had ever seen.
“Where did you get it?” said she.—The question was a master key to Lady
Dartford’s thoughts:—caps, hats and works of every description were
as much a solace to her, in the absence of her husband, as the greek
language, or the pagan philosophy could ever have been to Lady Mandeville,
under any of her misfortunes.—“I got it,” said she, brightening up
with a grateful look, at the only enquiry she had heard, that was at
all adapted to her understanding, at Madame de la Roche’s:—“it is the
cheapest thing you can conceive:—I only gave twenty guineas for it:—and
you know I am not reckoned very clever at making bargains.” “I should
think not,” answered Lady Augusta, adverting only to the first part of
the sentence.
Calantha entered at this moment. “Oh my sweet soul,” said Lady Augusta,
embracing her, “I began to despair of seeing you.—But what was the matter
with you last night? I had just been saying that you looked so very grave.
Notwithstanding which, Lord Dallas could think, and talk only of you. He
says your chevelure is perfectly grecian—the black ringlets upon the white
skin; but I never listen to any compliment that is not paid directly or
indirectly to myself. He is quite adorable:—do you not think so, hey?—no—I
see he is too full of admiration for you—too refined. Lady Avondale’s
heart must be won in a far different manner:—insult—rudeness—is the way
to it.—What! blush so deeply! Is the affair, then, too serious for a
jest? Why, _mon enfant_, you look like Miss Macvicker this morning.—And
is it true she will soon be united to you by the ties of blood, as she
now seems to be by those of sympathy and congeniality of soul?”
The eternal Count Gondimar, and afterwards Buchanan interrupted Lady
Augusta’s attack. New topics of discourse were discussed:—it will be
needless to detail them:—time presses. Balls, assemblies follow:—every
day exhibited a new scene of frivolity and extravagance;—every night
was passed in the same vortex of fashionable dissipation.