Lord Avondale and Calantha had been conversing on this very subject in the morning. He was surprised at her ready acquiescence in his wish to return to Ireland. “You are then still the same,” he said affectionately.—“I am the same,” she replied rather fretfully; “but you are changed:—every one tells me you neglect me.” “And have they who tell you so,” said he with a sigh, “any very good motive in thus endeavouring to injure me in your opinion? If I attended to what every one said, Calantha, perhaps I too should have some reason to complain.—Business of importance has alone engaged my attention. You know I am not one who assumes much; and if I say that I have been employed, you may depend on its being the case. I hope, then, I am not wrong when I have confided myself, and every thing that is dearest to me, to your honour and your love.”—“Ah no:—you are not wrong,” she answered; “but perhaps if you confided less, and saw more of me, it would be better. Before marriage, a woman has her daily occupations: she looks for the approving smile of her parents:—she has friends who cheer her—who take interest in her affairs. But when we marry, Henry, we detach ourselves from all, to follow one guide. For the first years, we are the constant object of your solicitude:—you watch over us with even a tenderer care than those whom we have left, and then you leave us—leave us too, among the amiable and agreeable, yet reprove us, if we confide in them, or love them. Marriage is the annihilation of love.” “The error is in human nature,” said Lord Avondale smiling—“We always see perfection in that which we cannot approach:—there is a majesty in distance and rarity, which every day’s intercourse wears off. Besides, love delights in gazing upon that which is superior:—whilst we believe you angels, we kneel to you, we are your slaves;—we awake and find women, and expect obedience:—and is it not what you were made for?”—“Henry, we are made your idols too—too long, to bear this sad reverse:—you should speak to us in the language of truth from the first, or never.—Obey—is a fearful word to those who have lived without hearing it; and truth from lips which have accustomed us to a dearer language, sounds harsh and discordant. We have renounced society, and all the dear ties of early friendship, to form one strong engagement, and if that fails, what are we in the world?—beings without hope, or interest—dependants—encumbrances—shadows of former joys—solitary wanderers in quest of false pleasures—or lonely recluses, unblessing and unblest.”