The spring was far advanced. Calantha’s health required the sea air;
but her situation rendered a long journey hazardous. Lord Avondale
resolved to await her confinement in England. The birth of a daughter
was an additional source of happiness: Anabel was the name given to the
little infant. Harry Mowbray was now in his second year. The accounts
from Ireland were more satisfactory. Mrs. Seymour wrote constantly to
Calantha regretting her absence. Weeks, however, flew by, in the same
thoughtless vanities: months passed away without regret or care.—Autumn
was gone:—winter again approached.—London, though deserted, by the
crowd, was still gay. Calantha lived much with her Aunt Margaret, Lady
Mandeville, and the Princess of Madagascar. The parks and streets, but
lately so thronged with carriages, were now comparatively lonely and
deserted. Like the swallows at the appointed hour, the gay tribe of
fashionable idlers had vanished; and a new set of people appeared in
their place:—whence, or why, nobody could guess.
One day Zerbellini, Calantha’s little page, had just returned
with a note from Buchanan; a french hair dresser was cutting her
hair; milliners and jewellers were displaying upon every table new
dresses—caps—chains—rings—for the ensuing winter; and Calantha’s eye was
dazzled—her ear was charmed—when her aunt Margaret entered.—“God bless
your Ladyship, God preserve you,” said a woman half starved, who was
waiting for an answer to her petition.—“_Mi Lady; ne prendra-t-elle pas
ce petit bonnet?_” said Madame la Roche. “Yes, every thing, any thing,”
she answered impatiently, as she got up to receive her aunt.—She was
unusually grave. Calantha trembled; for she thought she was prepared to
speak to her about Buchanan. She was extremely relieved when she found
that her censures turned solely upon her page. “Why keep that little
foreign minion?” she said, indignantly. “Is the Count Viviani so very
dear, that any present of his must be thus treasured up and valued?”
“The Count Viviani?” said Calantha astonished: “who is he?”—“Well, then,
Gondimar,” replied Lady Margaret. “Calantha—as a favour, I request you
send back that boy.”—Lady Avondale’s prayers were at first her sole
reply; and like Titania, in her second, when Oberon demanded the trusty
Henchman, she boldly refused. Lady Margaret left her immediately:—she
was calm, but offended. She was then going to Castle Delaval. Calantha
told her they should join her there in the course of the next month.
She only smiled, with a look of incredulity and contempt; asking her, if
her beloved Henry would really be so cruel as to tear her away at last
from London? and saying this she took leave.
Lord Avondale and Calantha had been conversing on this very subject in the
morning. He was surprised at her ready acquiescence in his wish to return
to Ireland. “You are then still the same,” he said affectionately.—“I am
the same,” she replied rather fretfully; “but you are changed:—every one
tells me you neglect me.” “And have they who tell you so,” said he with
a sigh, “any very good motive in thus endeavouring to injure me in your
opinion? If I attended to what every one said, Calantha, perhaps I too
should have some reason to complain.—Business of importance has alone
engaged my attention. You know I am not one who assumes much; and if I
say that I have been employed, you may depend on its being the case. I
hope, then, I am not wrong when I have confided myself, and every thing
that is dearest to me, to your honour and your love.”—“Ah no:—you are
not wrong,” she answered; “but perhaps if you confided less, and saw
more of me, it would be better. Before marriage, a woman has her daily
occupations: she looks for the approving smile of her parents:—she has
friends who cheer her—who take interest in her affairs. But when we
marry, Henry, we detach ourselves from all, to follow one guide. For the
first years, we are the constant object of your solicitude:—you watch
over us with even a tenderer care than those whom we have left, and then
you leave us—leave us too, among the amiable and agreeable, yet reprove
us, if we confide in them, or love them. Marriage is the annihilation
of love.”
“The error is in human nature,” said Lord Avondale smiling—“We always
see perfection in that which we cannot approach:—there is a majesty in
distance and rarity, which every day’s intercourse wears off. Besides,
love delights in gazing upon that which is superior:—whilst we believe you
angels, we kneel to you, we are your slaves;—we awake and find women, and
expect obedience:—and is it not what you were made for?”—“Henry, we are
made your idols too—too long, to bear this sad reverse:—you should speak
to us in the language of truth from the first, or never.—Obey—is a fearful
word to those who have lived without hearing it; and truth from lips which
have accustomed us to a dearer language, sounds harsh and discordant.
We have renounced society, and all the dear ties of early friendship,
to form one strong engagement, and if that fails, what are we in the
world?—beings without hope, or interest—dependants—encumbrances—shadows
of former joys—solitary wanderers in quest of false pleasures—or lonely
recluses, unblessing and unblest.”
Calantha had talked herself into tears, at the conclusion of this
sentence; and Lord Avondale, smiling at a description she had given, so
little according with the gay being who stood before him, pressed her
fondly to his bosom; and said he would positively hear no more. “You treat
me like a child—a fool,”—she said:—“you forget that I am a reasonable
creature.” “I do, indeed, Calantha:—you so seldom do any thing to remind
me of it.” “Well, Henry, one day you shall find your error. I feel that
within, which tells me that I could be superior—aye—very superior to
those who cavil at my faults, and first encourage and then ridicule me
for them. I love—I honour you, Henry. You never flatter me. Even if you
neglect me, you have confidence in me—and, thank God, my heart is still
worthy of some affection.—It is yet time to amend.” Calantha—thought it
had been—as she took in haste a review of her former conduct—of time,
how neglected!—friends, how estranged!—money lavished in vain!—and health
impaired by the excess of late hours, and endless, ceaseless dissipation.
London had still attractions for Calantha; but the thought of fresh air,
and green fields recurring, she was soon prepared for the journey. She
passed the intervening days before her departure in taking leave of her
friends. Lady Mandeville, in bidding adieu to her, affirmed that the
interchange of ideas between congenial souls, would never be lessened,
nor interrupted by absence. She would write to her, she said, and she
would think of her; and, seeing Calantha was really sorry to part with
her, “You have none of the philosophy,” she said, “which your cousin
and your aunt possess, and every trifle, therefore, has power to afflict
you:—you scarcely know me, and yet you are grieved to leave me. Promise
ever to judge of me by what you see yourself, and not through the medium
of others; for the world, which I despise from my soul, has long sought
to crush me, because I had pride of character enough to think for myself.”
If any thing had been wanting to strengthen Calantha’s regard, this boast
had been sure of its effect; for it was one of her favourite opinions,
not indeed that the world should be despised, but that persons should
dare to think, and act for themselves, even though against its judgments.
She was not then, aware how this cant phrase is ever in the mouths of the
veriest slaves to prejudice,—how little real independence of character is
found amongst those who have lost sight of virtue. Like spendthrifts, who
boast of liberality, they are forced to stoop to arts and means, which
those whom they affect to contemn, would blush even to think of. Virtue
alone can hope to stand firm and unawed above the multitude. When vice
assumes this fearless character, it is either unblushing effrontery and
callous indifference to the opinion of the wise and good, or at best,
but overweening pride, which supports the culprit, and conceals from
the eyes of others, the gnawing tortures he endures—the bitter agonizing
consciousness of self-reproach.