The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides, in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashion and power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?” said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting, or is this reality?” “It is the only reality you will ever find in the Princess,” returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none ever continued there long.”
“But why,” said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savages”—“Reviewers, you mean, and men of talents.” “Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?” “It is the fashion,” replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,” said Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.” “The great Nabob,” quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded; that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever the best received.” “And if I also bow my neck,” said Calantha, “will she be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?” The Poet’s naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry.
Cold Princess! where are your boasted professions now? You taught Calantha to love you, by every petty art of which your sex is mistress. She heard, from your lips, the sugared poisons you were pleased to lavish upon her. You laughed at her follies, courted her confidence, and flattered her into a belief that you loved her. Loved her!—it is a feeling you never felt. She fell into the mire; the arrows of your precious crew were shot at her—like hissing snakes hot and sharpened with malice and venomed fire; and you, yes—you were the first to scorn her:—you, by whom she had stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host of foes—aye, amidst the fawning rabble, who still crowd your doors, and laugh at and despise you. Thanks for the helping hand of friendship in the time of need—the mud and the mire have been washed from Calantha; the arrows have been drawn from a bleeding bosom; the heart is still sound, and beats to disdain you. The sun may shine fairly again upon her; but never, whilst existence is prolonged, will she set foot in the gates of the Palace of the great Nabob, or trust to the smiles and professions of the Princess of Madagascar.
CHAPTER XXX.
“And what detains you in town?” said Gondimar, on the eve of Mrs. Seymour and Sophia’s departure. “Will this love of gaiety never subside. Tell me, Lady Avondale, do you believe all that the Duke of Myrtlegrove, and your more warlike cousin have said to you?—What means the blush on your indignant cheek? The young duke is more enamoured of the lustre of his diamond ring and broach, than of the brightest eyes that ever gazed on him; and though the words glory and renown drop from the mouth of Buchanan, love, I think, has lost his time in aiming arrows at his heart. Has he one?—I think not? But who has one in London?” “You have not assuredly,” said the Count: “and, if you knew the censures that are every where passed upon you, I think, for Lord Avondale’s sake, you would regret it.” “I do; but indeed—”
The entrance of Buchanan put a stop to this conversation. “Are you ready?” he cried. “Ready! I have waited for you three hours: it is five, and you promised to come before two.” “You would excuse me, I am sure, if you knew how excessively ill I have been. I am but this moment out of bed. That accursed hazard kept me up till ten this morning. Once, I sat two days and nights at it: but it’s no matter.” “You take no care of yourself.—I wish for my sake you would.” The manner in which Calantha said this, was most particularly flattering and kind: it was, indeed, ever so; but the return she met with (like the lady who loved the swine. “Honey,” quoth she, “thou shalt in silver salvers dine.” “Humph,” quoth he) was most uncourteous. “Truly I care not if I am knocked on the head to-morrow,” replied Buchanan. “There is nothing worth living for in life: every thing annoys me: I am sick of all society, Love, sentiment, is my abhorrence.” “But driving, dearest Buchanan,—riding,—your mother—your—your cousin.” “Oh, d..n it; don’t talk about it. It’s all a great bore.”
“And can Lady Avondale endure this jargon?” “What is that Italian here again?” whispered Buchanan. “But come, let’s go. My horses must not wait, they are quite unbroke; and the boy can’t hold them. Little Jem yesterday had his ribs broke; and this youngster’s no hand. Where shall we drive?” “To perdition,” whispered Gondimar. “Can’t wait,” said Buchanan, impatiently: and Calantha hurried away.
The curricle was beautiful; the horses fiery; Buchanan in high spirits; and Calantha—ah must it be confessed?—more elated with this exhibition through the crowded streets, than she could have been at the most glorious achievement. “Drive faster,—faster still,” she continually said, to shew her courage. Alas! real courage delights not in parade; but anything that had the appearance of risk or danger, delighted Calantha. “Damn it, how Alice pulls.” “Alice!” said Calantha. “Oh hang it; don’t talk of that. Here’s Will Rattle, let me speak to him; and Dick, the boxer’s son. Do you mind stopping? Not in the least.” Saying which they pulled in, as Buchanan termed it; and a conversation ensued, which amused Calantha extremely. “How soon shall you be off?” said Will Rattle, as they prepared to drive on.—“It’s a devilish bore staying in London now,” replied Buchanan: “only I’ve been commanded to stay,” saying which he smiled, and turned to Lady Avondale, “or I should have been with my regiment before this. The moment I am released, however, I shall go there.—Hope to see you to-night, Will. Mind and bring Charles Turner.—There’s a new play. Oh I forgot:—perhaps I shan’t be let off; shall I?” “No,” replied Calantha, extremely pleased at this flattering appeal. Will bowed with conceit, and off they galloped, Buchanan repeating as they went, “A damned strange fellow that—cleverer than half the people though, who make such a noise. I saved his life once in an engagement. Poor Will, he’s so grateful, he would give all he has for me,—I’ll be d—d if he would not.” Let this suffice. The drive was not very long; and, the danger of being overturned excepted, utterly devoid of interest.
Lady Dartford had returned to town. Perhaps no one ever heard that she had left it: like the rose leaf upon the glass full of water, her innocent presence made not the slightest difference, nor was her absence at any time observed. She, however, called upon Calantha, a few moments after Buchanan had taken her home. Lady Avondale was with her lord, in the library when she came. “Why did you let her in?” she said rather crossly to the servant; when another loud rap at the door announced Lady Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn. Calantha was writing a letter; and Lord Avondale was talking to her of the arrangements for their departure. “I wish I ever could see you one moment alone,” he said, “Say I am coming—or shall not come,” she replied; and during the time she remained to finish the conversation with her husband, she could not help amusing herself with the thought of Lady Dartford’s alarm, at finding herself in the presence of Lady Mandeville, whom she did not visit. “You do not attend at all,” said Lord Avondale; “you are of no use whatever;” Alas! he had already found that the mistress of his momentary passion, was not the friend and companion of his more serious thoughts. Calantha was of no use to any one. She began to feel the bitterness of this certainty, but she fled from the reflection with pain.
Eager to amuse Lady Dartford, Lady Augusta, who knew her well, entertained her till Lady Avondale joined them, with a variety of anecdotes of all that had taken place since her departure; and, having soon exhausted other subjects, began upon Calantha herself. “She is positively in love with Captain Buchanan,” said she. “At every ball he dances with her; at every supper he is by her side; all London is talking of it. Only think too how strange, just as he was said to have proposed to Miss Macvicker—a fortune—twenty thousand a year—a nice girl, who really looks unhappy. Poor thing, it is very hard on her.—I always feel for girls.” “Come,” said Lady Mandeville, “last night you know, they did not interchange a word: he talked the whole evening to that young lady with the singular name. How I detest gossiping and scandal. Calantha deserves not this.” “Bless us, how innocent we are all of a sudden,” interrupted Lady Augusta! “have you any pretentions, dearest lady, to that innoxtious quality? Now are you not aware that this is the very perfection of the art of making love—this not speaking? But this is what always comes of those who are so mighty fond of their husbands. Heavens, how sick I have been of all the stories of their romantic attachment. There is nothing, my dear, like Miss Seymour, or making one sick. She always gives me the vapours.”