In the company of one or other of these, Calantha would pass her mornings; and sometimes would she stand alone upon the summit of the cliff, hour after hour, to behold the immense ocean, watching its waves, as they swelled to the size of mountains, then dashed with impetuous force against the rocks below; or climbing the mountain’s side, and gazing on the lofty summits of Heremon and Inis Tara, lost in idle and visionary thought; but at other times joyous, and without fear, like a fairy riding on a sun beam through the air, chasing the gay images of fancy, she would join in every active amusement and suffer her spirits to lead her into the most extravagant excess.
CHAPTER X.
Love, it might be conjectured, would early shew itself in a character such as Calantha’s; and love, with all its ardour and all its wildness, had already subdued her heart. What, though Mrs. Seymour had laid it down as a maxim, that no one, before she had attained her fourteenth year, could possibly be in love! What, though Lady Margaret indignantly asserted, that Calantha could not, and should not, look even at any other than him for whom her hand was destined! She had looked; she had seen; and what is more, she believed the impression at this time made upon her heart was as durable as it was violent.
Sophia Seymour, Mrs. Seymour’s eldest daughter, in a month, nay in a week, had already discovered Calantha’s secret:—the same feeling for the same object, had given her an acuteness in this instance, with which she was not at all times gifted:—She herself loved, and, therefore, perceived her cousin’s passion. Calantha’s manner immediately confirmed her in her supposition. She entered one morning into her room;—she saw the unfinished drawing;—she could not mistake it—that commanding air—that beaming eye—there was but one whom it could resemble, and that one was Henry Mowbray, Earl of Avondale. She taxed Calantha bitterly with her partiality; “But he thinks not of you,” she said, and haughtily left the room.
Admiral Sir Richard Mowbray was an old and valued friend of the Duke of Altamonte. He had served with Sir George Buchanan, brother-in-law to Lady Margaret. He had no children; but his nephew, the young Earl of Avondale, was, next to his country, the strongest and dearest interest of his heart. What happiness must the Admiral then have felt when he beheld his nephew; and found that, in mind and person, he was distinguished by every fair endowment. He had entered the army young; he now commanded a regiment: with a spirit natural to his age and character, he had embraced his father’s profession; like him, he had early merited the honours conferred upon him. He had sought distinction at the hazard of his life; but happily for all who knew him well, he had not, like his gallant father, perished in the hour of danger; but, having seen hard service, had returned to enjoy, in his own country, the ease, the happiness and the reputation he so well deserved.
Lord Avondale’s military occupations had not, however, prevented his cultivating his mind and talents in no ordinary degree; and the real distinctions he had obtained, seemed by no means to have lessened the natural modesty of his character. He was admired, flattered, sought after; and the strong temptation to which his youth had thus early been exposed, had, in some measure, shaken his principles and perverted his inclinations.
Happily a noble mind and warm uncorrupted heart soon led him from scenes of profligacy to a course of life more manly and useful:—deep anxiety for a bleeding country, and affection for his uncle, restored him to himself. He quitted London, where upon his first return from abroad he had for the most part resided, and his regiment being ordered to Ireland, on account of the growing disaffection in that country, he returned thither to fulfil the new duty which his profession required. Allanwater and Monteith, his father’s estates, had been settled upon him; but he was more than liberal in the arrangements he made for his uncle and the other branches of his family.
Many an humbler mind had escaped the danger to which Lord Avondale had, early in life, been exposed;—many a less open character had disguised the too daring opinions he had once ventured to cherish! But, with an utter contempt for all hypocrisy and art, with a frankness and simplicity of character, sometimes observed in men of extraordinary abilities, but never attendant on the ordinary or the corrupted mind, he appeared to the world as he really felt, and neither thought nor studied whether such opinions and character were agreeable to his own vanity, or the taste of his companions; for whom, however, he was, at all times, ready to sacrifice his time, his money, and all on earth but his honour and integrity.
Such was the character of Lord Avondale, imperfectly sketched—but true to nature.—He, in his twenty-first year, now appeared at Castle Delaval—the admiration of the large and various company then assembled there. Flattered, perhaps, by the interest shewn him, but reserved and distant to every too apparent mark of it, he viewed the motley groupe before him, as from a superior height, and smiled with something of disdain, at times, as he marked the affectation, the meanness, the conceit and, most of all, the heartlessness and cowardice of many of those around him. Of a morning, he would not unfrequently join Calantha and Sophia in their walks; of an evening, he would read to the former, or make her his partner at billiards, or at cards. At such times, Sophia would work at a little distance; and as her needle monotonously passed the silken thread through the frame to which her embroidery was fixed, her eyes would involuntarily turn to where her thoughts, in spite of her endeavours, too often strayed. Calantha listened to the oft-repeated stories of the admiral; she heard of his battles, his escapes and his dangers, when others were weary of the well-known topics; but he was Lord Avondale’s uncle, and that thought made every thing he uttered interesting to her.
“You love,” said Alice Mac Allain, one day to her mistress, as they wandered in silence along the banks of the river Elle, “and he who made you alone can tell to what these madning fires may drive a heart like yours. Remember your bracelet—remember your promises to Buchanan; and learn, before it is too late, in some measure to controul yourself, and disguise your feelings.” Calantha started from Alice; for love, when it first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that it fears the least breath of observation, and disguises itself under every borrowed name. “You are wrong,” said Calantha, “I would not bend my free spirit to the weakness of which you would accuse me, for all the world can offer; your Calantha will never acknowledge a master; will never yield her soul’s free and immortal hopes, to any earthly affection. Fear not, my counsellor, that I will forsake my virgin vows, or bow my unbroken spirit to that stern despot, whose only object is power and command.”