Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 31
CHAPTER VII.
Marriage and hanging go by destiny.
Old Proverb.
Every street in London was Macadamizing—every shop was selling bargains;—the pale pink, blue, and primrose ribands were making one effort for final sale, before the purples and crimsons of winter set in. Women in black gowns, and drab-coloured shawls hung upon their shoulders as if they were pegs in a passage—men in coats something between a great-coat and a frock—strings of hackney-coaches which moved not—stages which drove along with an empty, rattling sound—and carts laden with huge stones, now filled Piccadilly. All the windows, that is to say all of any pretensions, had their shutters closed, excepting here and there an open parlour one, where the old woman left in care of the house sat for her amusement.
Every thing bespoke the season of one of those migratory disorders, which, at certain periods, depopulate London. Still, one mansion, which the time ought to have unpeopled, was evidently inhabited; and in one of its rooms—small, but luxurious enough for a sultana in the Arabian Nights, or a young gentleman of the present day—were seated two persons in earnest conversation.
After a time, one of them—it was Mr. Delawarr—rose and left the room, saying, "I own the truth of your remarks—it makes good the observation, that a bystander sees more of the game than those who are playing;—and now let me remind you of the assistance you can render me; that will be a more powerful motive than all I could urge of your own ambition and advancement."
Lorraine rose, and paced the room in an excited and anxious mood: he felt conscious of his own great powers, and of the many advantages he possessed for bringing them into action. But pleasures are always most delightful when we look back upon, or forward to them: and he felt an indolent reluctance to turn from the voice of the charmer—charm she never so wisely—and assume those enduring habits of industry and energy which are as much required as even talent in an Englishman's public career. He only wanted the influence of a more powerful motive than the theoretic conviction of the excellence of such exertion; but the necessity was even now on its road.
Noon and the post arrived together; and they brought that letter which had given Lord Etheringhame such trouble in its composition, announcing his engagement with Lady Adelaide Merton. Lorraine was as completely taken by surprise as it was well possible for a gentleman to be. His brother's marriage had long ceased to enter into his calculations; but if it were possible for any human being to be without one grain of selfishness in his composition, Edward Lorraine was that being; and his first vague astonishment over, his next feeling was to rejoice over an event so certain to restore his brother's mind to a more healthy tone—to recall him to his place in society; and never was a letter more frank or affectionate in its congratulations than the one he forthwith despatched to the Earl. He could not but feel curious to know how the conquest had been managed, and perhaps thought any other match would have been as good. Still, a young man is rarely very severe on the faults of a very beautiful girl; and, moreover, it was a flattering unction to lay to his soul, that he, rather than the lady, had been the first to withdraw from their flirtation.
He then went to communicate the affair to Mr. Delawarr, whose equanimity being unsupported by affection, was much the most disturbed by the occurrence. His judgment, unbiassed by any brotherly partiality, drew no flattering conclusions for Lord Etheringhame's future, either as a brilliant or as a useful career—
"Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel;"
and he foresaw Lord Etheringhame would just be a puppet in the hands of his very lovely wife. These reflections he deemed it unnecessary to communicate, and finished the dialogue by exclaiming, "Well, Edward, I only wish you had married her yourself." In this wish, however, his auditor did not quite cordially join.
Lord Etheringhame had many feminine points in his character; this his very letter evinced. Part of its most important information was in the postscript, viz. that Mr. Maynard had died suddenly; his physician said by his cook—the jury by the visitation of God. The borough he had represented was now vacant: it was his lordship's, and the seat was offered to Edward, and accepted. The grief into which Lady Alicia's death plunged Mr. Delawarr, made Lorraine's presence and assistance invaluable to one who had quite enough of business to justify his saying, "He had not a moment's time to himself;"—an assertion more pleasant than we are ready to admit. No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very miserable.
March arrived, and with it the period fixed for the marriage, which had been delayed, and was now to be private, on account of the recent loss. Lady Lauriston and her daughter had spent a quiet fortnight in London: people cannot be married without a clergyman—the milliner and the jeweller are equally indispensable. They returned to Stanbury Park, whose owner made his niece a present of a set of pearls and a cookery book; and at last the day came when the ceremony was to be performed in the chapel of Etheringhame Castle.
From a delay on the road, almost impossible in these days—but rapid driving does sometimes accomplish impossibilities—Edward only arrived that very morning in time to accompany his brother, who walked up and down the hall, sipping his coffee at intervals, and having very much the air of a soldier who would retreat if he could.
Any great change is like cold water in winter—one shrinks from the first plunge; and a lover may be excused who shivers a little at the transmigration into a husband. It is a different case with the lady—she has always been brought up with the idea of being married—moreover, she must be very much taken up with her blonde—and, to conclude, a woman gains her liberty, but a man loses his.
Edward was the only one of the party sufficiently unoccupied to appreciate the propriety and the picturesque of the scene. Lord Lauriston, watching his lady in evident trepidation lest his conduct should not meet her approbation—Lord Merton, obviously tired of the forms, but subsiding into patience as he met his mother's eye—Mr. Stanbury, with a face full of congratulations and a mouth full of jokes, all equally checked by Lady Lauriston's glance—she, all dignified quiet, only touched by a most maternal sadness at parting with her daughter—and the daughter herself, nothing could be more perfect, whether in dress or demeanour.
After much hesitation, and consideration of the will yet unwritten, the property at his own disposal, Lady Lauriston consented that Adelaide should be married with her head uncovered. "No girl," said Mr. Stanbury, "In his time ever wore one of those frightful huge bonnets;" and it was finally arranged that his niece should not. A dress of the most delicate white silk, made open so as to display the collerette beneath, so favourable to the display of her exquisitely turned neck—the small ruff that encircled her slender throat, which rose white and graceful as the swan's—the beautiful hair, which descended in light ringlets like a summer shower, every drop filled with sunshine, whose profusion was restrained, not concealed, by the wreath of orange flowers;—and the blonde veil that fell to her feet.
She entered clinging timidly to her father's arm, and knelt in an attitude perfectly inimitable before the altar, while, from one of the painted windows of the little chapel, the most e quisite rose tint fell over her figure; it was as if her own rich blush had coloured the atmosphere around. Her voice, throughout the whole response, was quite inaudible—just a whisper—fairy music; and, after the ceremony, she leant on her husband's arm with an air so different from that with which she had leant on her father's—she clung to the one, while she seemed to shrink from the other—gradually, however, drawing towards him, as if for support. When the rest crowded round with their congratulations, Edward felt greatly inclined to laugh as he offered his: their eyes met, and he was convinced the bride smothered a smile too; but whether the smile was mirth or triumph, would have been a difficult question to decide.
We must not forget the bridesmaids, who were selected with as much judgment as the rest: young, pretty, well calculated to set off the scene, but slight and brunettes, they were admirably calculated also to set off the height and fairness of Lady Adelaide.
The breakfast was as stupid as such breakfasts usually are. The bride is all timidity—the parents sorry, of course, to lose their sweet child—and the bridegroom is a non-entity. Lady Etheringhame changed her dress, and looked almost lovelier still in her travelling costume. She was now overwhelmed with affliction. Lady Lauriston implored Algernon to watch over the happiness of the dearest of her children. Adelaide was almost borne to the carriage—her mother retired to her own room, overcome with her feelings—and Edward thought it very ungrateful that the audience did not rise and clap the performance.