CHAPTER XXXI.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 ofMadagascar. 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.—Shewas 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 wouldreally 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 tome, 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 gazingupon 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; andLord 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 healthimpaired 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 indifferenceto 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.
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 ofMadagascar. 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.—Shewas 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 wouldreally 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 tome, 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 gazingupon 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; andLord 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 healthimpaired 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 indifferenceto 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.