CHAPTER XV.Calantha’s jewels and costly attire—her equipages and attendants, were now the constant topic of conversation. Every rich gift was ostentatiously exhibited; while congratulations, were on all sides, poured forth, upon the youthful bride. Lady Margaret, eagerly displaying the splendid store to Calantha, asked her if she were not happy.—“Do not,” she replied addressing her aunt, “do not fancy that I am weak enough to value these baubles:—My heart at least is free from a folly like this:—I despise this mockery of riches.” “You despise it!” repeated Lady Margaret, with an incredulous smile:—“you despise grandeur and vanity! Child, believe one who knows you well, you worship them; they are your idols; andwhile your simple voice sings forth romantic praises of simplicity and retirement, you have been cradled in luxury, and you cannot exist without it.”Buchanan was now daily, nay even hourly expected:—Lady Margaret, awaited him with anxious hope; Calantha with increasing fear. Having one morning ridden out to divert her mind from the dreadful suspense under which she laboured, and meeting with Sir Everard, she enquired of him respecting her former favourite: “Miss Elinor,” said the doctor, “is still with her aunt, the abbess of Glanaa; and, her noviciate being over, she will soon, I fancy, take the veil. You cannot see her; but if your Ladyship will step from your horse, and enter into my humble abode, I will shew you a portrait of St. Clara, for so we now call her, she being indeed a saint; and sure you will admire it.” Calantha accompanied the doctor, and was struck with the singular beauty of the portrait. “HappySt. Clara, she said, and sighed:—your heart, dedicated thus early to Heaven, will escape the struggles and temptations to which mine is already exposed. Oh! that I too, might follow your example; and, far from a world for which I am not formed, pass my days in piety and peace.”That evening, as the Duke of Altamonte led his daughter through the crowded apartments, presenting her to every one previous to her marriage, she was suddenly informed that Buchanan was arrived. Her forced spirits, and assumed courage at once forsook her; she fled to her room; and there giving vent to her real feelings, wept bitterly.—“Yet why should I grieve thus?” she said:—“What though he be here to claim me? my hand is yet free:—I will not give it against the feelings of my heart.”—Mrs. Seymour had observed her precipitate flight, and following, insisted upon being admitted. She endeavoured to calm her; but it was too late.From that day, Calantha sickened:—theaid of the physician, and the care of her friends were vain:—an alarming illness seized upon her mind, and affected her whole frame. In the paroxysm of her fever, she called repeatedly upon Lord Avondale’s name, which confirmed those around her in the opinion they entertained, that her malady had been occasioned by the violent effort she had made, and the continual dread under which she had existed for some time past, of Buchanan’s return. Her father bitterly reproached himself for his conduct; watched by her bed in anxious suspense; and under the impression of the deepest alarm, wrote to his old friend the admiral, informing him of his daughter’s danger, and imploring him to urge Lord Avondale to forget what had passed and to hasten again to Castle Delaval.—He stated that, to satisfy his sister’s ambition, the greater part of his fortune should be settled upon Buchanan, to whom his title descended; and if, after this arrangement, LordAvondale still continued the same as when he had parted from Calantha, he only requested his forgiveness of his former apparent harshness, and earnestly besought his return without a moment’s loss of time.His sister, he strove in vain to appease:—Lady Margaret was in no temper of mind to admit of his excuses. Her son had arrived and again left the castle, without even seeing Calantha; and when the Duke attempted to pacify Lady Margaret, she turned indignantly from him, declaring that if he had the weakness to yield to the arts and stratagems of a spoiled and wayward child, she would instantly depart from under his roof, and never see him more. No one event could have grieved him so much, as this open rupture with his sister. Yet his child’s continued danger turned his thoughts from this, and every other consideration:—he yielded to her wishes:—he could not endure the sight of her misery:—he had from infancy never refused herslightest request:—and could he now, on so momentous an occasion, could he now force her inclinations and constrain her choice.The kind intentions of the Duke were however defeated. Stung to the soul, Calantha would not hear of marriage with Lord Avondale:—pride, a far stronger feeling than love, at that early period, disdained to receive concessions even from a father:—and a certain moroseness began to mark her character, as she slowly recovered from her illness, which never had been observed in it before. She became austere and reserved; read nothing but books of theology and controversy; seemed even to indulge an inclination for a monastic life; was often with Miss St. Clare; and estranged herself from all other society.“Let her have her will,” said Lady Margaret, “it is the only means of curing her of this new fancy.”—The Duke however thought otherwise: he was greatlyalarmed at the turn her disposition seemed to have taken, and tried every means in his power to remedy and counteract it.—A year passed thus away; and the names of Buchanan and Lord Avondale were rarely or never mentioned at the castle; when one evening, suddenly and unexpectedly, the latter appeared there to answer in person, a message which the Duke had addressed to him, through the Admiral, during his daughter’s illness.Lord Avondale had been abroad since last he had parted from Calantha; he had gained the approbation of the army in which he served; and what was better, he knew that he deserved it. His uncle’s letter had reached him when still upon service. He had acted upon the staff; he now returned to join his own regiment which was quartered at Leitrim; and his first care, before he proceeded upon the duties of his profession, was to seek the Duke, and to claim, with diminished fortune and expectations, thebride his early fancy had chosen.—“I will not marry him—I will not see him:”—These were the only words Calantha pronounced, as they led her into the room where he was conversing with her father.When she saw him, however, her feelings changed. Every heart which has ever known what it is to meet after a long estrangement, the object of its first, of its sole, of its entire devotion, can picture to itself the scene which followed. Neither pride, nor monastic vows, nor natural bashfulness, repressed the full flow of her happiness at the moment, when Lord Avondale rushed forward to embrace her, and calling her his own Calantha, mingled his tears with hers.—The Duke, greatly affected, looked upon them both. “Take her,” he said, addressing Lord Avondale, and be assured, whatever her faults, she is my heart’s pride—my treasure. Be kind to her:—that I know you will be, whilst the enthusiasm of passion lasts: but ever be kind to her,even when it has subsided:—remember she has yet to learn what it is to be controuled.” “She shall never learn it,” said Lord Avondale, again embracing Calantha: “by day, by night, I have lived but in this hope:—she shall never repent her choice.” “The God of Heaven vouchsafe his blessing upon you,” said the Duke.—“My sister may call this weakness; but the smile on my child’s countenance is a sufficient reward.”
Calantha’s jewels and costly attire—her equipages and attendants, were now the constant topic of conversation. Every rich gift was ostentatiously exhibited; while congratulations, were on all sides, poured forth, upon the youthful bride. Lady Margaret, eagerly displaying the splendid store to Calantha, asked her if she were not happy.—“Do not,” she replied addressing her aunt, “do not fancy that I am weak enough to value these baubles:—My heart at least is free from a folly like this:—I despise this mockery of riches.” “You despise it!” repeated Lady Margaret, with an incredulous smile:—“you despise grandeur and vanity! Child, believe one who knows you well, you worship them; they are your idols; andwhile your simple voice sings forth romantic praises of simplicity and retirement, you have been cradled in luxury, and you cannot exist without it.”
Buchanan was now daily, nay even hourly expected:—Lady Margaret, awaited him with anxious hope; Calantha with increasing fear. Having one morning ridden out to divert her mind from the dreadful suspense under which she laboured, and meeting with Sir Everard, she enquired of him respecting her former favourite: “Miss Elinor,” said the doctor, “is still with her aunt, the abbess of Glanaa; and, her noviciate being over, she will soon, I fancy, take the veil. You cannot see her; but if your Ladyship will step from your horse, and enter into my humble abode, I will shew you a portrait of St. Clara, for so we now call her, she being indeed a saint; and sure you will admire it.” Calantha accompanied the doctor, and was struck with the singular beauty of the portrait. “HappySt. Clara, she said, and sighed:—your heart, dedicated thus early to Heaven, will escape the struggles and temptations to which mine is already exposed. Oh! that I too, might follow your example; and, far from a world for which I am not formed, pass my days in piety and peace.”
That evening, as the Duke of Altamonte led his daughter through the crowded apartments, presenting her to every one previous to her marriage, she was suddenly informed that Buchanan was arrived. Her forced spirits, and assumed courage at once forsook her; she fled to her room; and there giving vent to her real feelings, wept bitterly.—“Yet why should I grieve thus?” she said:—“What though he be here to claim me? my hand is yet free:—I will not give it against the feelings of my heart.”—Mrs. Seymour had observed her precipitate flight, and following, insisted upon being admitted. She endeavoured to calm her; but it was too late.
From that day, Calantha sickened:—theaid of the physician, and the care of her friends were vain:—an alarming illness seized upon her mind, and affected her whole frame. In the paroxysm of her fever, she called repeatedly upon Lord Avondale’s name, which confirmed those around her in the opinion they entertained, that her malady had been occasioned by the violent effort she had made, and the continual dread under which she had existed for some time past, of Buchanan’s return. Her father bitterly reproached himself for his conduct; watched by her bed in anxious suspense; and under the impression of the deepest alarm, wrote to his old friend the admiral, informing him of his daughter’s danger, and imploring him to urge Lord Avondale to forget what had passed and to hasten again to Castle Delaval.—He stated that, to satisfy his sister’s ambition, the greater part of his fortune should be settled upon Buchanan, to whom his title descended; and if, after this arrangement, LordAvondale still continued the same as when he had parted from Calantha, he only requested his forgiveness of his former apparent harshness, and earnestly besought his return without a moment’s loss of time.
His sister, he strove in vain to appease:—Lady Margaret was in no temper of mind to admit of his excuses. Her son had arrived and again left the castle, without even seeing Calantha; and when the Duke attempted to pacify Lady Margaret, she turned indignantly from him, declaring that if he had the weakness to yield to the arts and stratagems of a spoiled and wayward child, she would instantly depart from under his roof, and never see him more. No one event could have grieved him so much, as this open rupture with his sister. Yet his child’s continued danger turned his thoughts from this, and every other consideration:—he yielded to her wishes:—he could not endure the sight of her misery:—he had from infancy never refused herslightest request:—and could he now, on so momentous an occasion, could he now force her inclinations and constrain her choice.
The kind intentions of the Duke were however defeated. Stung to the soul, Calantha would not hear of marriage with Lord Avondale:—pride, a far stronger feeling than love, at that early period, disdained to receive concessions even from a father:—and a certain moroseness began to mark her character, as she slowly recovered from her illness, which never had been observed in it before. She became austere and reserved; read nothing but books of theology and controversy; seemed even to indulge an inclination for a monastic life; was often with Miss St. Clare; and estranged herself from all other society.
“Let her have her will,” said Lady Margaret, “it is the only means of curing her of this new fancy.”—The Duke however thought otherwise: he was greatlyalarmed at the turn her disposition seemed to have taken, and tried every means in his power to remedy and counteract it.—A year passed thus away; and the names of Buchanan and Lord Avondale were rarely or never mentioned at the castle; when one evening, suddenly and unexpectedly, the latter appeared there to answer in person, a message which the Duke had addressed to him, through the Admiral, during his daughter’s illness.
Lord Avondale had been abroad since last he had parted from Calantha; he had gained the approbation of the army in which he served; and what was better, he knew that he deserved it. His uncle’s letter had reached him when still upon service. He had acted upon the staff; he now returned to join his own regiment which was quartered at Leitrim; and his first care, before he proceeded upon the duties of his profession, was to seek the Duke, and to claim, with diminished fortune and expectations, thebride his early fancy had chosen.—“I will not marry him—I will not see him:”—These were the only words Calantha pronounced, as they led her into the room where he was conversing with her father.
When she saw him, however, her feelings changed. Every heart which has ever known what it is to meet after a long estrangement, the object of its first, of its sole, of its entire devotion, can picture to itself the scene which followed. Neither pride, nor monastic vows, nor natural bashfulness, repressed the full flow of her happiness at the moment, when Lord Avondale rushed forward to embrace her, and calling her his own Calantha, mingled his tears with hers.—The Duke, greatly affected, looked upon them both. “Take her,” he said, addressing Lord Avondale, and be assured, whatever her faults, she is my heart’s pride—my treasure. Be kind to her:—that I know you will be, whilst the enthusiasm of passion lasts: but ever be kind to her,even when it has subsided:—remember she has yet to learn what it is to be controuled.” “She shall never learn it,” said Lord Avondale, again embracing Calantha: “by day, by night, I have lived but in this hope:—she shall never repent her choice.” “The God of Heaven vouchsafe his blessing upon you,” said the Duke.—“My sister may call this weakness; but the smile on my child’s countenance is a sufficient reward.”