Children as fair, and more innocent than their mother, entered whilst she was yet venting her complaints. A husband she had not;—but lovers. What man was there who could see her, and not, at all events wish himself of the number! Yet she assured Lady Avondale, who believed her, that she despised them all; that moreover she was miserable, but vicious; that her very openness and frankness ought to prove that there was nothing to conceal. The thought of guilt entered not at that time into Calantha’s heart; and when a woman affirmed that she was innocent, it excited in her no other surprise, than that she should, for one moment, suppose her so barbarous, and so malevolent, as to think otherwise. Indeed there seemed to her as great a gulph between those she loved, and vice, as that which separates the two extremes of wickedness and virtue; nor had she yet learned to comprehend the language of hypocrisy and deceit.
Though the presence of the children had not made any difference, the entrance of three gentlemen, whom Lady Mandeville introduced to Lady Avondale, as her lovers, gave a new turn to the conversation; and here it should be explained, that the term lover, when Lady Mandeville used it, was intended to convey no other idea than that of an humble attendant,—a bearer of shawls, a writer of sonnets, and a caller of carriages. “With Lord Dallas you are already acquainted,” she said, sighing gently. “I wish now to introduce to you Mr. Clarendon, a poet: and Mr. Tremore, what are you? speak for yourself; for I hardly know in what manner to describe you.” “I am anything, and everything that Lady Mandeville pleases,” said Mr. Tremore, bowing to the ground, and smiling languidly upon her. Mr. Tremore was one of the most unsightly lovers that ever aspired to bear the name. He was of a huge circumference, and what is unusual in persons of that make, he was a mass of rancour and malevolence—gifted however with a wit so keen and deadly, that with its razor edge, he cut to the heart most of his enemies, and all his friends. Lord Dallas, diminutive and conceited, had a brilliant wit, spoke seldom, and studied deeply every sentence which he uttered. He affected to be absent; but in fact no one ever forgot himself so seldom. His voice, untuned and harsh, repeated with a forced emphasis certain jests and bon mots which had been previously made, and adapted for certain conversations. Mr. Clarendon alone seemed gifted with every kind of merit:—he had an open ingenuous countenance, expressive eyes, and a strong and powerful mind.
The conversation alternately touched upon the nature of love, the use and beauty of the greek language, the pleasures of maternal affection, and the insipidity of all English society. It was rather metaphorical at times:—there was generally in it a want of nature—an attempt at display: but to Calantha it appeared too singular, and too attractive to wish it otherwise. She had been used, however, to a manner rather more refined—more highly polished than any she found out of her own circle and family. A thousand things shocked her at first, which afterwards she not only tolerated, but adopted. There was a want of ease, too, in many societies, to which she could not yet accustom herself; and she knew not exactly what it was which chilled and depressed her when in the presence of many who were, upon a nearer acquaintance, amiable and agreeable. Perhaps too anxious a desire to please, too great a regard for trifles, a sort of selfishness, which never loses sight of its own identity, occasions this coldness among these votaries of fashion. The dread of not having that air, that dress, that refinement which they value so much, prevents their obtaining it; and a degree of vulgarity steals unperceived amidst the higher classes in England, from the very apprehension they feel of falling into it. Even those, who are natural, do not entirely appear so.
Calantha’s life was like a feverish dream:—so crowded, so varied, so swift in its transitions, that she had little time to reflect; and when she did, the memory of the past was so agreeable and so brilliant, that it gave her pleasure to think of it again and again. If Lord Avondale was with her, every place appeared even more than usually delightful; but, when absent, her letters, no longer filled with lamentations on her lonely situation, breathed from a vain heart the lightness, and satisfaction it enjoyed.
It may be supposed that one so frivolous and so thoughtless, committed every possible fault and folly which opportunity and time allowed. It may also be supposed, that such imprudence met with its just reward; and that every tongue was busy in its censure, and every gossip in exaggerating the extraordinary feats of such a trifler. Yet Calantha, upon the whole, was treated with only too much kindness; and the world, though sometimes called severe, seemed willing to pause ere it would condemn, and was intent alone to spare—to reclaim a young offender.
CHAPTER XXV.
How different from the animated discussion at Lady Mandeville’s, was the loud laugh and boisterous tone of Lady Augusta Selwyn, whom Calantha found, on her return, at that very moment stepping from her carriage, and enquiring for her. “Ah, my dear sweet friend,” she cried, flying towards Calantha, and shaking her painfully by the hand, “this fortuitous concurrence of atoms, fills my soul with rapture. But I was resolved to see you. I have promised and vowed three things in your name; therefore, consider me as your sponsor, and indeed I am old enough to be such. In the first place, you must come to me to-night, for I have a little supper, and all my guests attend only in the hope of meeting you. You are the bribe I have held out—you are to stand me in lieu of a good house, good cook, agreeable husband, and pretty face,—in all of which I am most unfortunately deficient. Having confessed thus much, it would be barbarous, it would be inhuman you know to refuse me. Now for the second favour,” continued this energetic lady:—“come alone; for though I have a great respect for Mrs. and Miss Seymour, yet I never know what I am about when their very sensible eyes are fixed upon me.”—“Oh you need not fear, Sophia would not come if I wished it; and Mrs. Seymour”—“I have something else to suggest,” interrupted Lady Augusta:—“introduce me immediately to your husband: he is divine, I hear—perfectly divine!” “I cannot at this moment; but”—“By the bye, why were you not at the ball last night. I can tell you there were some who expected you there. Yes, I assure you, a pair of languid blue eyes watching for you—a fascinating new friend waiting to take you home to a petit souper très-bien assorti. I went myself. It was monstrously dull at the ball:—insupportable, I assure you; perfectly so. Mrs. Turner and her nine daughters! It is quite a public calamity, Mrs. Turner being so very prolific—the produce so frightful. Amongst other animals, when they commit such blunders, the brood is drowned; but we christians are suffered to grow up till the land is overrun.” “Heigho.” “What is the matter? You look so triste to-day, not even my wit can enliven you.—Isn’t it well, love? or has its husband been plaguing it? Now I have it:—you have, perchance, been translating an Ode of Pindar. I was there myself this morning; and it gave me the vapours for ten minutes; but I am used to these things you know child, and you are a novice. By the bye, where is your cousin, le beau capitaine, le chef des brigands? I was quite frappè with his appearance.” “You may think it strange,” said Calantha, “but I have not seen him these eight years—not since he was quite a child.” “Oh, what an interview there will be then,” said Lady Augusta: “he is a perfect ruffian.”
“Are you aware that we have three sets of men now much in request?—There are these ruffians, who affect to be desperate, who game, who drink, who fight, who will captivate you, I am sure of it. They are always just going to be destroyed, or rather talk as if they were; and every thing they do, they must do it to desperation. Then come the exquisites. Lord Dallas is one, a sort of refined petit maître, quite thorough bred, though full of conceit. As to the third set, your useful men, who know how to read and write, in which class critics, reviewers, politicians and poets stand, you may always know them by their slovenly appearance. But you are freezing, mon enfant. What can be the matter? I will release you in a moment from my visitation. I have ten thousand things to say.—Will you come to my opera box Tuesday? Are you going to the masked ball Thursday? Has Mrs. Churchill sent for you to her déjeûné paré. I know she wishes, more than I can express, to have you. Perhaps you will let me drive you there. My ponies are beautiful arabians: have you seen them? Oh, by the bye, why were you not at your aunt Lady Margaret’s concert? I believe it was a concert:—there was a melancholy noise in one of the rooms; but I did not attend to it.—Do you like music?”—“I do; but I must own I am not one who profess to be all enchantment at the scraping of a fiddle, because some old philharmonic plays on it; nor can I admire the gurgling and groaning of a number of foreigners, because it is called singing.”
“They tell me you think of nothing but love and poetry. I dare say you write sonnets to the moon—the chaste moon, and your husband. How sentimental!” “And you,”—“No, my dear, I thank heaven I never could make a rhyme in my life.—Farewell—adieu—remember to-night,—bring Lord Avondale—that divine Henry: though beware too; for many a lady has to mourn the loss of her husband, as soon as she has introduced him into the society of fascinating friends.” “He is out of town.” “Then so much the better. After all, a wife is only pleasant when her husband is out of the way. She must either be in love, or out of love with him. If the latter, they wrangle; and if the former, it is ten times worse. Lovers are at all times insufferable; but when the holy laws of matrimony give them a lawful right to be so amazingly fond and affectionate, it makes one sick.” “Which are you, in love or out of love with Mr. Selwyn?”—“Neither, my child, neither. He never molests me, never intrudes his dear dull personage on my society. He is the best of his race, and only married me out of pure benevolence. We were fourteen raw Scotch girls—all hideous, and no chance of being got rid of, either by marriage, or death—so healthy and ugly. I believe we are all alive and flourishing somewhere or other now. Think then of dear good Mr. Selwyn, who took me for his mate, because I let him play at cards whenever he pleased. He is so fond of cheating, he never can get any one but me to play with him. Farewell.—Au revoir.—I shall expect you at ten.—Adieu, chère petite.” Saying which Lady Augusta left Calantha.