Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII.
"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."
Byron.
Now, though we do not believe much of the ancient belle alliance between Cupid and the Graces yet remains—though we do not believe that the milliner accelerates the match, and that the colour of a capote may be the colour of our fate, or the turn of a curl the turn of our fortune; having a theory of our own, that such things come by chance, and go by destiny; yet we can perfectly understand a young lady's drapery being influenced by her feelings, and that Hope may cast her couleur de rose over the mirror—that study of the fair conqueror. Emily lingered and lingered for a longer time at the glass than either Mrs. Radcliffe or Mrs. Hannah More would have approved of,—one for the sake of romance, the other for that of morality.
It is still a disputed point among authors, whether it be best or not to describe their heroine: I must own I lean to the descriptive myself; I like to have the lady placed bodily before me—I like to know whether the eyes with whose tears I am to sympathise are of the true blue of patriotism, or of the deep black of poetry. I can call up the image more distinctly, when I know if her cheek is like
"The lady lily, paler than the moon;"
or like
"The red rose, fragrant with the breath of June."
Judging of others by myself, and quoting the Spectator for my authority, let me, as some old author says, "paint my ladie with words."
Parted in the middle into two rich braids, the dark hair divided so as to do full justice to the oval of the face, and caught on its auburn wave the first shade of the crape hat, whose yellow was delicate as the earliest primrose—that faint soft yellow, so trying, yet so becoming; a colour to be avoided equally by the bright and the sallow, making the bright seem coarse, and the sallow sickly—but exquisite on that clear pale skin where the rose visits, but dwells not, and the blush passes with the feelings it betrays.
Not one in a thousand knows how to put on a bonnet: they set it on one side like a disagreeable recollection; or bolt upright, as if they wanted to realise Shakespeare's worst of puns,—"and she, like France, was at war with her hair (heir)." No such very great degree of genius can be displayed in the rest of the toilette. The dress has been chosen—it fits you à ravir—it has simply to be put on with mathematical accuracy: but the bonnet is the triumph of taste,—you must exert your intellect,—your destiny is in your own hands.
Emily was successful: brought a little forward on the face, its shade was the coquetry of timidity; and the dark eyes were more piquant from the slight difficulty of meeting them. Her dress was the deepest Parma violet,—so beautiful a colour in itself,—so picturesque in its associations,—the crimson of war and the purple of royalty blended in one: it opened at the throat, whose whiteness was, if possible, softened by that most aërial of inventions, a blonde ruff: finish the costume with gloves, whose tint was of the same delicate hue as the hat; put the feet into slippers fit for Cinderella, if she had worn black satin instead of glass,—and you have an exact idea of the figure which two glasses were now reflecting. An open window gave cause for a shiver—and that was excuse for the boa, too graceful for even June to banish. With a secret consciousness that she was dressed in the very colour which Lorraine had, a week before, said was his favourite, she ran down to the drawing-room, and, approaching a stand of flowers, paused for a moment on the choice of scarlet geraniums, heliotropes, lilies, &c. when Edward came from the other room.
"Nay, Miss Arundel, the blossoms before you are too sophisticated,—their life has been for a whole morning artificial: unwilling to delegate the choice, I drove this morning to Colville's,—allow me to offer you my selection;" and he gave her two of the freshest of moss-rosebuds,—those very loveliest of infant flowers.
Lorraine might have been struck with the deepness of her blush,—he only noticed the beauty of it.
"Do you know," said he, laughingly, "if you blush your thanks so prettily, I must apply to you the compliment paid the Italian poet,
'Tutti sei pensieri sono de' rose.'"
Lady Alicia now came in, and, while waiting for Mr. Delawarr, they could not do less than admire each other. People are often very generous in giving what is of no value: is it on this principle that one lady is usually so profuse in her admiration of the dress of another? Truly, that afternoon they ought to have enjoyed themselves: it was a bright, becoming day,—one of those fairy gifts with which summer now and then surprises us. Their progress had all the exhilaration of rapidity: four horses with
"Bit of foam, and hoof of speed;"
and a carriage, light as if meant more for air than earth, combine the opposite pleasures of indolence and motion. Nothing could be gayer than the scene through which they passed: it had only one fault—they were used to it.
Soon the sound of music, and an atmosphere heavy with the odour of the most aromatic plants, announced their arrival at Lady Walsingham's villa, where Ambition was giving a fête to Pleasure, as Fashion's prime minister.
Lady Walsingham was rich—even in London; she had rank, but she had not always had it. Her first husband was a horror, but he had money; her second was a fool, but he had a title;—and thus possessed of riches and rank, she only wanted fashion. The ré-union to-day was political as that of the Field of the Cloth of Gold; splendour was at once to conciliate and to dazzle; not an orange-tree but had a purpose,—not an acacia but was charged, not only with its flowers, but "with Ulysses' fate." Notoriety is born of novelty; and exertion and imagination were alike exhausted to give character to the fête. Grecian temples were surrounded by hawthorn hedges,—Turkish tents stood in the shade of the oaks,—and one Chinese pagoda was dexterously entwined with honeysuckle; there were conservatories filled with the rarest plants, and avenues with ladies walking about as if in a picture; ices were served in the grotto; and servants in the Oriental costume handed almond-cakes.
On the turf-sweep before the house—her head heavy with feathers, her ears with diamonds, and her heart with anxiety—stood the hostess. Every nation has it characteristic—and an Englishwoman's is standing, distributing her smiles, as if, as some one has observed, she had bought them, like her rouge, wholesale.
"This do I for your applause, O Athenians!" Thus did the conqueror of the world apostrophise the inhabitants of a city, who, if they took any thought about his drowning, would rather have preferred it. And thus did that hope of to-morrow—which, why it should be glory in one case, and folly in another, I never could properly understand—support the Countess.
"Very pretty indeed," ejaculated Mr. St. John; "quite in character,—just like a scene in a play."
"Take me away," lisped the pretty and mignonne Mrs. De Grey, "lest I grow like what I do look upon,—I feel the reflection of her ladyship's full pink upon my own face!"
"All of luxury except its refinement," was the encomium of Lord Alfred Vernon.
"C'est que Madame a été, comme Cicerone, consulter l'oracle, qui lui a dit de suivre la nature, et elle l'a suivie, son naturel," whispered the young Comte de Merivale, who brought to England little besides a contempt for it.
Emily, however, had not this morning one critical qualification; no discontent for a commencement—no jarring interest for a continuation; she looked on her roses, and their perfume seemed to have a power like the white ones of Alnaschar, to charm away all suffering; she was leaning on Lorraine's arm—and who shall deny the intense happiness of the mere presence of one we love?—not those who have felt it.
"So," said Mr. St. John, "after canvassing enough for two counties—a correspondence worthy of the days of Richardson—our Countess has prevailed on Lady Lauriston to allow the beauty to grace her fête."
"What!" exclaimed Edward; "Lady Adelaide here?"
"Yes; in the very next walk,—I have just paid my homage."
"Old friends of mine,—shall we go and speak?"—and Lorraine turned towards the next walk with an earnestness which made Emily bow, not speak, her assent.
They soon reached the trellice-work of roses beneath whose arch Adelaide and her brother were standing. A face of the most surpassing beauty lighted into smiles as Lorraine approached,—a few inquiries were made,—they moved on together,—the walk became narrower,—and in five minutes more, Emily found herself transferred to Lord Merton's care, and Lady Adelaide and Lorraine following. She had not even the satisfaction of watching her companions. Engrossed in their own conversation, they lingered behind,—a gay laugh at first gave sign of their presence, but that soon subsided to a low whisper, which implies such interest in discourse:—
"Speak low, if you speak love."
Once she turned back;—Edward's eyes were fixed with most eloquent earnestness on the exquisite face of his companion,—the rich colour of excitement had banished his usual paleness. Emily felt it almost a relief to look towards Adelaide; but the expression was not
"The soft betraying air
That women loved and flatter'd love to wear:"
there was consciousness, but it was that of beauty—and brilliancy, but it was that of triumph.
In the mean time, Emily was progressing most rapidly in Lord Merton's favour. He had not always been the eldest son—a steeple chase had put one brother out of the way, and a duel another. He was shy from habit, and talkative from nature: the last quality made him wish for a listener, and the first to be obliged to one. Talking uninterruptedly was a luxury he had not yet enjoyed enough for indifference. Abroad he had hitherto been one of those juveniles to whom no calculation forbids contradiction and no interest necessitates attention. At home, his mother never ceased talking, neither did his sisters; and silence in a woman had become to him her perfection. For above an hour, with a feeling of most enviable content, he had been detailing to Emily how his beautiful chestnut mare, Zephyr, had caught, suffered from, and been cured of her last cold. At first he expected to be interrupted—then looked to see if she yawned—but neither of these conversational contingencies occurring, and Emily giving a proper quantity of acquiescing bows, he yielded himself up to the full enjoyment of so delightful a companion.
In one part of the grounds were stationed some jugglers—these suggested a full account of how, when he was at college, he had taken some lessons of one, till he was nearly as expert in catching the balls as his master. The Prague minstrels, stationed in a young plantation of firs, gave another occasion of discourse, how he had once attempted the French horn himself, but found his lungs too delicate—how his mother had been afraid of a consumption. Many a passer-by thought Miss Arundel was listening to some subject of most touching interest: his Lordship was only detailing the benefit he derived one wet day from his caoutchouc cloak. The truth is, Lord Merton was, simply, naturally and intensely selfish; he was himself "the ocean of his thoughts;" he never considered the comfort of other people, because he never looked at it as distinct from his own; and the most romantic devotion, the most self-denying love, would have seemed, if he were the object of it, as quite in the common course of things.
This is a common character, which age alone developes into deformity. Youth, like charity, covers a multitude of sins; but Heaven help the wife, children, servants, and all other pieces of domestic property, when such a man is fifty, and has the gout!
It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good—and Lady Walsingham was made happy by the sincerity and warmth with which Lord Merton assured her he was delighted with her entertainment, and especially charmed with the jugglers and minstrels.
Emily now pleaded fatigue, and seeing Lady Alicia seated on a most rural-looking bench, with an awning of blue silk, she took a place beside her: but Lord Merton was too well pleased with his companion to part; and, somewhat unceremoniously appropriating a shawl which hung near, spreading it, lest the grass should be damp, he seated himself at their feet—a plan which succeeded beyond his expectations, for he thus secured two listeners. Emily assumed an air of attention, but her thoughts were far away. She looked on the flowers which Lorraine had given her a few hours since—they were drooping already; and was this the day from which she had expected so much pleasure? What a stupid thing a fête was! What a waste of time and expense! So much bad taste too! Lucky is it for a hostess her verdict does not de pend on young ladies, unless she could call a parliament of love, and arrange all its little affairs in her own favour. And yet all this was not so much discontent as disguise. Who does not shrink from love's first avowal? and how much so, when that avowal is to be made in secret, in silence, and in vain? Her temples beat with that acute pain which makes every sound a torture; her sight was as composed as her thoughts; and she breathed with difficulty; to speak almost choked her. She thought not of weeping; yet a world of tears was now at her heart.
"Oh, join us!" said Lady Mandeville, as a flourish of trumpets announced that the refreshment-room was thrown open.
Adelaide and Lorraine came up at the same moment; Lord Merton sprang from his seat with all the agility of expectation; and in a few moments they were seated at one of the tables, in a tent whose scarlet and gold were worthy of Tippoo Saib, and whose size emulated that given by the fairy to her princely lover. How mistaken is the phrase, "every delicacy of the season"—they mean out of season. Grapes are ripe at the same time as strawberries, and peaches come in with the crocuses. A breakfast à la fourchette is the "chartered libertine" of gastronomy—one eats ice, another soup, and a pâté à la financier rivals its neighbour pine-apple.
"What with their tents, turbans, coffee, and fountains, all signs du meilleur goût, I think the Turks a most refined people," said Lady Mandeville. "if it ever be my sorrowful destiny to enact the Ephesian, I shall set off for Constantinople—try the effect of mes beaux yeux on the Sublime Porte, and make a futurity of cachemeres and rose-water."
"Ah!" exclaimed Lorraine, "the Turks know how to manage you ladies—
'There rolls the sea, and yonder yawns the sack.' "
"Is that your idea of gallantry?" said Mr. Delawarr.
"It is its excess, I grant," interrupted Lorraine; "but I must say, I think the Turk invests his homage to woman with that mystery, that solitude, that setting apart from life's daily and common use, which constitutes so much of poetry. His beautiful Circassian or Georgian mistress is a thing too sacred for common eyes. I quite enter into the feeling which shuns a profane eye resting on the face we love. What a charm must be in the veil our hand only is privileged to raise! His wealth, his taste, are lavished on his haram. He makes the shrine worthy of the idol. Her delicate step falls on the velvet carpet—her sweet mouth inhales an atmosphere of perfume—the chain of pearls, the fragrant attar, the crimson ruby, are heaped on the fair favourite, who wears them only for him. Liberality is an imposing term for indifference. We regard the treasure we value; and I should expect my jealousy to be taken as a proof of my devotion."
"Then," said Lady Mandeville, "you intend making love with a bunch of keys in one hand, and a dagger in the other."
"Alas! I live in an age when Bedlam is considered a fitting temple of romance. I must content myself with an abstract admiration of Turkish seclusion."
"Romance! All nonsense!" said Lord Merton, reaching across Emily for another slice of pine.
"On the contrary," replied Lorraine, "I think romance can never take a very high tone but in times of great civilisation. Romance is more matter of feeling than of passion; and if violent passions belong to a barbarous, strong feelings belong to a civilised state. Exemption from great bodily exertion is favourable to habits of thought. The refinement of our tastes, of course, is communicated to our sentiments; and we exaggerate, subtilise, and spiritualise—the three chief ingredients of romance."
"I believe," said Lady Mandeville, "that we abuse the age we live in, on the same principle that we take liberties with our friends. The poor present time, how it is calumniated! degenerate, immoral, irreligious, are its best epithets; and we talk of the good old time till we really believe it existed."
"Even," observed Mr. Delawarr, "as we eulogise the peace and innocence of a country life; for the peace of the parish, apply to the rector on the tithe day—for its innocence, to the justice of the peace."
"But do you not think," asked Lorraine, "that these ideal excellencies have their origin in our nature's better part? The first step either to goodness or happiness is to believe in their existence."
"We shall lose the fireworks if we sit talking here," said Lord Merton.
Even Lady Alicia was startled out of her passiveness by this announcement; and the whole party hurried towards the piece of water, by whose side the exhibition was to take place. Lord Merton still kept his place at Emily's side, and narrated to her divers of his juvenile feats with gunpowder; and he was one, as we have said, to whom not talking was listening.
It was a magnificent display of the most magnificent of elements: the rocket swept through the air like a spirit, and the skies seemed to realise the old saying, and rained gold and silver; while the water below spread like an immense mirror, till above and below gleamed with light. But Emily's eyes wandered from the scene before her; and every fugitive glance only brought back fresh conviction of Edward's interest in the beautiful face whose smiles were exclusively enough given to himself, to have made one far less perfect very fascinating.
Adelaide was too quick-sighted not to perceive that Miss Arundel, when she first saw her talking to Lorraine, wore a very different air from Miss Arundel listening to Merton; and a rival was the sauce Robert, which would have made her not eat, but flirt with her grandfather.
However, there is always one solace to misery, as there is one drawback to pleasure,—they must all have an end, and so had Lady Walsingham's fête. The carriage drove off, but the place opposite Emily was vacant; Lorraine had accepted a seat in Lord Merton's cabriolet. Miss Arundel was not the only listener, for which her brother was that day indebted to Adelaide.