Nothing gives greater umbrage than a misconception and mistaken application of tenets and opinions which were never meant to be thus understood and acted upon. Lady Mowbray, a strict adherent to all customs and etiquettes, saw with astonishment in Calantha a total disregard of them; and her high temper could ill brook such a defect. Accustomed to the gentleness of Elizabeth, she saw with indignation the liberty her niece had assumed. It was not for her to check her; but rigidity, vehemence in dispute, and harsh truths, at times too bitterly expressed on both sides, gave an appearance of disunion between them, which happily was very far from being real, as Calantha loved and admired Lady Mowbray with the warmest affection.
Lord Avondale, in the mean time, solely devoted to his wife, blinded himself to her danger. He saw not the change a few months had made, or he imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for himself. He thought others harsh to what he regarded as the mere thoughtlessness of youth; and, surrendering himself wholly to her guidance, he chided, caressed and laughed with her in turn. “I see how it is Henry,” said Sir Richard, before he left Ireland,—“you are a lost man; I shall leave you another year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by that time all this nonsense will be over. I love you the better for it, however, my dear boy;—a soldier never looks so well, to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty woman, provided he does his duty abroad, as well as at home, and that praise every one must give you.”
CHAPTER XIX.
The threatening storm of rebellion now darkened around.—Acts of daily rapine and outrage alarmed the inhabitants of Ireland, both in the capital and in the country: all the military forces were increased; Lord Avondale’s regiment, then at Leitrim, was ordered out on actual service; and the business of his profession employed every moment of his time. The vigorous measures pursued, soon produced a favorable change; tranquillity was apparently restored; and the face of things resumed its former appearance; but the individual minds that had been aroused to action were not so easily quieted, and the charms of an active life were not so readily laid aside. Lord Avondale was still much abroad—much occupied; and the time hanging heavy upon Calantha’s hands, she was not sorry to hear that they were going to spend the ensuing winter in London.
In the autumn, previous to their departure for England, they passed a few weeks at Castle Delaval, chiefly for the purpose of meeting Lady Margaret Buchanan who had till then studiously avoided every occasion of meeting Lady Avondale. Buchanan had neither seen her nor sent her one soothing message since that event, so angry he affected to be, at what, in reality, gave him the sincerest delight.
Count Gondimar had returned from Italy, and was now at the castle. He had brought letters from Viviani to Lady Margaret, who said at once when she had read them: “You wish to deceive me. These letters are dated from Naples, but our young friend is here—here even in Ireland.” “And his vengeance,” said Gondimar, laughing. Lady Margaret affected, also, to smile:—“Oh, his vengeance!” she said, “is yet to come:—save me from his love now; and I will defend myself from the rest.”
Lord and Lady Dartford were, likewise, at the castle. He appeared cold and careless. In his pretty inoffensive wife, he found not those attractions, those splendid talents which had enthralled him for so long a period with Lady Margaret. He still pined for the tyranny of caprice, provided the load of responsibility and exertion were removed: and the price of his slavery were that exemption from the petty cares of life, for which he felt an insurmountable disgust. From indolence, it seemed he had fallen again into the snare which was spread for his ruin; and having, a second time, submitted to the chain, he had lost all desire of ever again attempting to shake it. Lady Dartford, too innocent to see her danger, lamented the coldness of her husband, and loved him with even fonder attachment, for the doubt she entertained of his affection. She was spoken of by all with pity and praise: her conduct was considered as examplary, when, in fact, it was purely the effect of nature; for every hope of her heart was centered in one object, and the fervent constancy of her affection arose, perhaps, in some measure from the uncertainty of its being returned. Lady Margaret continued to see the young Count Viviani in secret:—he had now been in Ireland for some months:—his manner to Lady Margaret was, however, totally changed:—he had accosted her, upon his arrival, with the most distant civility, the most studied coldness:—he affected ever that marked indifference which proved him but still too much in her power; and, while his heart burned with the scorching flames of jealousy, he waited for some opportunity of venting his desire of vengeance, which, from its magnitude, might effectually satisfy his rage.
Lord Dartford saw him once as he was retiring in haste from Lady Margaret’s apartment; and he enquired of her eagerly who he was.—“A young musician, a friend of Gondimar’s, an Italian,” said Lady Margaret. “He has not an Italian countenance,” said Lord Dartford, thoughtfully. “I wish I had not seen him:—it is a face which makes a deep and even an unpleasant impression. You call him Viviani, do you?—whilst I live, I never shall forget Viviani!”
Cards, billiards and music, were the usual nightly occupations. Sir Everard St. Clare and the Count Gondimar sometimes entered into the most tedious and vehement political disputes, unless when Calantha could influence the latter enough to make him sing, which he did in an agreeable, though not in an unaffected manner. At these times, Mrs. Seymour, with Sophia and Frances, unheeding either the noise or the gaiety, eternally embroidered fancy muslins, or, with persevering industry, painted upon velvet. Calantha mocked at these innocent recreations. “Unlike music, drawing and reading, which fill the mind,” she said;—“unlike even to dancing which, though accounted an absurd mode of passing away time, is active and appears natural to the human form and constitution.”
“Tell me Avondale,” Calantha would say, “can any thing be more tedious than that incessant irritation of the fingers—that plebian, thrifty and useless mode of increasing in women a love of dress—a selfish desire of adorning their own persons?—I ever loathed it.—There is a sort of self-satisfaction about these ingenious working ladies, which is perfectly disgusting. It gratifies all the little errors of a narrow mind, under the appearance of a notable and domestic turn. At times, when every feeling of the heart should have been called forth, I have seen Sophia examining the patterns of a new gown, and curiously noting every fold of a strangers dress. Because a woman who, like a mechanic, has turned her understanding, and hopes, and energies, into this course, remains uninjured by the storms around her, is she to be admired?—must she be exalted?” “It is not their occupation, but their character, you censure:—I fear, Calantha, it is their very virtue you despise.” “Oh no!” she replied, indignantly: “when real virtue, struggling with temptations of which these senseless, passionless creatures have no conception, clinging for support to Heaven, yet preserves itself uncorrupted amidst the vicious and the base, it deserves a crown of glory, and the praise and admiration of every heart. Not so these spiritless immaculate prejudiced sticklers for propriety. I do not love Sophia:—no, though she ever affords me a cold extenuation for my faults—though through life she considers me as a sort of friend whom fate has imposed upon her through the ties of consanguinity. I did not—could not—cannot love her; but there are some, far better than herself, noble ardent characters, unsullied by a taint of evil; and I think, Avondale, without flattery, you are in the list, that I would die to save; that I would bear every torture and ignominy, to support and render happy.”—“Try then my Calantha,” said Lord Avondale, “to render them so; for, believe me, there is no agony so great as to remember that we have caused one moment’s pang to such as have been kind and good to us.” “You are right,” said Calantha, looking upon him with affection.