Lord Avondale was desirous of passing the winter with his family at
Monteith, and in the spring he had promised the Duke of Altamonte to
accompany Lady Avondale to Castle Delaval. Lady Mandeville and Lady
Augusta Selwyn were invited to meet them there at that time. The wish
of pleasing Calantha, of indulging even her very weaknesses, seemed to
be the general failing of all who surrounded her:—yet what return did
she make?—each day new follies engrossed her thoughts;—her levity and
extravagance continually increased; and whilst with all the ostentation
of generosity she wasted the fortune of her husband upon the worthless
and the base,—he denied himself every amusement, secretly and kindly
to repair the ruin—the misery—the injustice her imprudence and wanton
prodigality had caused.
During a long and melancholy journey, and after her arrival at Monteith,
Calantha, with some astonishment, considered the difference of Lord
Avondale’s views, character and even talents for society and conversation,
as compared with those of her former companions. Lord Avondale had no love
of ostentation—no effort—a perfect manliness of conduct and character, a
real, and not feigned, indifference to the opinion and applause of the
vain and the foolish; yet with all this, he was happy, cheerful, ready
to enter into every amusement or occupation which gave others pleasure.
He had not one selfish feeling. It was impossible not to be forcibly
struck with the comparison.
Calantha, with her usual inconsistency, now made all those sensible and
judicious remarks which people always make, when they have lived a life
of folly, and suddenly return to a more tranquil course. She compared
the false gaiety which arises from incessant hurry and vanity, with that
which is produced by nature and health. She looked upon the blue sky
and the green fields; watched the first peeping snow-drop and crocus;
and entered with delight into all the little innocent pleasures of a
rural life: nor did even a slight restlessness prevail, nor any erring
thoughts steal back to revisit the gay scenes she had left. In very truth
she was more adapted, she said, to her present course of life than to
any other; and, however guilty of imprudence, she thanked God she had
not heavier sins to answer for; nor was there a thought of her heart,
she would not have wished her husband to know, unless from the fear of
either giving him pain or betraying others.
At length, however, and by degrees, something of disquiet began to
steal in upon the serenity of her thoughts:—her mind became agitated,
and sought an object:—study, nay, labour she had preferred to this
total want of interest. While politics and military movements engaged
Lord Avondale almost wholly, and the rest of the family seemed to exist
happily enough in the usual course, she longed for she knew not what.
There was a change in her sentiments, but she could not define it. It
was not as it had been once: yet there was no cause for complaint. She
was happy, but her heart seemed not to partake of her happiness: regret
mingled at times with her enjoyments.
Lady Mowbray spoke with some asperity of her late conduct; Lady Elizabeth
enquired laughingly if all she heard were true; for every folly, every
fault, exaggerated and misrepresented, had flown before her: she found
that all which she had considered as merely harmless, now appeared in a
new and more unpleasing light. Censures at home and flattery abroad are
a severe trial to the vain and the proud. She thought her real friends
austere; and cast one longing glance back upon the scene which had been
so lately illumined by the gaiety, the smiles, the kindness and courtesy
of her new acquaintance.
Whilst the first and only care of Lord Avondale, every place was alike
delightful to Calantha; for in his society she enjoyed all that she
desired; but now that she saw him estranged, absent, involved in deeper
interests, she considered, with some feelings of alarm, the loneliness
of her own situation. In the midst of hundreds, she had no real
friends:—those of her childhood were estranged from her by her marriage;
and those her marriage had united her with, seemed to perceive only her
faults, nor appreciated the merits she possessed. To dress well, to talk
well, to write with ease and perspicuity, had never been her turn. Unused
to the arts and amusements of social intercourse, she had formerly felt
interest in poetry, in music, in what had ceased to be, or never had
existed; but now the same amusements, the same books, had lost their
charm: she knew more of the world, and saw and felt their emptiness and
fallacy. In the society of the generality of women and men she could
find amusement when any amusement was to be found; but, day after day,
to hear sentiments she could not think just, and to lose sight of all
for which she once had felt reverence and enthusiasm, was hard. If she
named one she loved, that one was instantly considered as worthless:
if she expressed much eagerness for the success of any project, that
eagerness was the subject of ridicule.
Oh I am changed, she continually thought; I have repressed and conquered
every warm and eager feeling; I love and admire nothing; yet am I not
heartless and cold enough for the world in which I live. What is it
that makes me miserable? There is a fire burns within my soul; and all
those whom I see and hear are insensible. Avondale alone feels as I do;
but alas! it is no longer for me. Were I dead, what difference would it
make to any one? I am the object of momentary amusement or censure to
thousands; but, of love, to none. I am as a child, as a mistress to my
husband; but never his friend, his companion. Oh for a heart’s friend,
in whom I could confide every thought and feeling; who would share and
sympathize with my joy or sorrow; to whom I could say, “you love me—you
require my presence;” and for whom in return I would give up every other
enjoyment. Such friend was once Lord Avondale. By what means have I lost
him?
Often when in tears she thus expressed herself. Her husband would
suddenly enter; laugh with her without penetrating her feelings; or,
deeply interested in the cares of business, seek her only as a momentary
solace and amusement. Such, however, he seldom now found her; for she
cherished a discontented spirit within her; and though too proud and
stubborn to complain, she lived but on the memory of the past.
Calantha’s principles had received a shock, the force and effect of
which was greatly augmented by a year of vanity and folly; her health
too was impaired from late hours and an enervating life; she could not
walk or ride as formerly; and her great occupation was the indulgence of
a useless and visionary train of thinking. She imagined that which was
not, and lost sight of reality;—pictured ideal virtues, and saw not the
world as it is. Her heart beat with all the fervour of enthusiasm; but
the turn it took was erroneous. She heard the conversation of others;
took a mistaken survey of society; and withdrew herself imperceptibly
from all just and reasonable views. Ill motives were imputed to her, for
what she considered harmless imprudence; she felt the injustice of these
opinions; and, instead of endeavouring to correct those appearances which
had caused such severe animadversion, in absolute disgust she steeled
herself against all remonstrances. Every one smiles on me and seems to
love me—the world befriends me—she continually thought; yet I am censured
and misrepresented. My relations—the only enemies I have—are those who
profess to be my friends. Convinced of this, she became lonely. She had
thoughts which once she would have mentioned as they occurred, but which
she now concealed and kept solely to herself. She became dearer in her
own estimation, as she detached herself from others, and began to feel
coldly, even towards those whom she had once loved.