“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 greatly alarmed 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, the bride 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.”
CHAPTER XVI.
What Lord Avondale had said was true.—One image had pursued him in every change of situation, since he had parted from Calantha; and though he had scarcely permitted his mind to dwell on hope; yet he felt that, without her, there was no happiness for him on earth; and he thought that once united to her, he was beyond the power of sorrow or misfortune. So chaste, even in thought, she seemed—so frank and so affectionate, could he be otherwise than happy with such a companion? How then was he astonished, when, as soon as they were alone, she informed him that, although she adored him, she was averse to the fetters he was so eager to impose. How was he struck to find that all the chimerical, romantic absurdities, which he most despised, were tenaciously cherished by her; to be told that dear as he was, her freedom was even dearer; that she thought it a crime to renounce her vows, her virgin vows; and that she never would become a slave and a wife;—he must not expect it.
Unhappy Avondale! even such an avowal did not open his eyes, or deter him from his pursuit. Love blinds the wisest: and fierce passion domineers over reason. The dread of another separation inspired him with alarm. Agitated—furious—he now combatted every objection, ventured every promise, and loved even with greater fondness from the increasing dread of again losing what he had hoped was already his own.—“Men of the world are without religion,” said Calantha with tears; “Women of the world are without principle. Truth is regarded by none. I love and honour my God, even more than I love you; and truth is dearer to me than life. I am not like those I see:—my education, my habits, my feelings are different; I am like one uncivilized and savage; and if you place me in society, you will have to blush every hour for the faults I shall involuntarily commit. Besides this objection, my temper—I am more violent—Oh that it were not so; but can I, ought I, to deceive you?”... “You are all that is noble, frank and generous: you shall guide me,” said Lord Avondale; “and I will protect you. Be mine:—fear me not:—your principles, I venerate; your religion I will study—will learn—will believe in.—What more?”
Lord Avondale sought, and won that strange uncertain being, for whom he was about to sacrifice so much. He considered not the lengthened journey of life—the varied scenes through which they were to pass; where all the qualities in which she was wholly deficient would be so often and so absolutely required—discretion, prudence, firm and steady principle, obedience, humility.—But to all her confessions and remonstrances, he replied:—“I love, and you return my passion:—can we be otherwise than blest! You are the dearest object of my affection, my life, my hope, my joy. If you can live without me, which I do not believe, I cannot without you; and that is sufficient. Sorrows must come on all; but united together we can brave them.—My Calantha you torture me, but to try me. Were I to renounce you—were I to take you at your word, you, you would be the first to regret and to reproach me.”—“It is but the name of wife I hate,” replied the spoiled and wayward child.—“I must command:—my will.”—“Your will, shall be my law,” said Lord Avondale, as he knelt before her: “you shall be my mistress—my guide—my monitress—and I, a willing slave.”—So spoke the man, who, like the girl he addressed, had died sooner than have yielded up his freedom, or his independence to another; who, high and proud, had no conception of even the slightest interference with his conduct or opposition to his wishes; and who at the very moment that in words he yielded up his liberty, sought only the fulfilment of his own desire, and the attainment of an object upon which he had fixed his mind.
The day arrived. A trembling bride, and an impassioned lover faintly articulated the awful vow. Lord Avondale thought himself the happiest of men; and Calantha, though miserable at the moment, felt that, on earth, she loved but him. In the presence of her assembled family, they uttered the solemn engagement, which bound them through existence to each other; and though Calantha was deeply affected, she did not regret the sacred promise she had made.
When Lord Avondale, however, approached to take her from her father’s arms—when she heard that the carriages awaited, which were to bear them to another residence, nor love, nor force prevailed. “This is my home,” she cried: “these are my parents. Share all I have—dwell with me where I have ever dwelt; but think not that I can quit them thus. No spirit of coquetry—no petty airs, learned or imagined, suggested this violent and reiterated exclamation—I will not go.” I will not—was sufficient as she imagined, to change the most determined character; and when she found that force was opposed to her violence, terror, nay abhorrence took possession of her mind; and it was with shrieks of despair she was torn from her father’s bosom.
“Unhappy Avondale!” said Sophia, as she saw her thus borne away, “may that violent spirit grow tame, and tractable, and may Calantha at length prove worthy of such a husband!” This exclamation was uttered with a feeling which mere interest for her cousin could not have created. In very truth, Sophia loved Lord Avondale. And Alice MacAllain, who heard the prayer with surprise and indignation, added fervently:—“that he may make her happy—that he may know the value of the treasure he possesses—this is all I ask of heaven.—Oh! my mistress—my protectress—my Calantha—what is there left me on earth to love, now thou art gone? Whatever they may say of thy errors even those errors are dearer to my heart, than all the virtues thou has left behind.”