Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 46
CHAPTER XXII.
"Ah, whence yon glare
That fires the arch of heaven?—that dark red smoke
Blotting the silver moon?"
*****
"And what were earth and stars,
If to the human mind's imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?"—Shelley.
There is something sublime in being out of humour with the whole world. Discontent against an individual is called anger; that against the many, misanthropy. There is a great deal of poetry in an epithet. Lorraine indulged in the latter mood of mind for a week. His brother called—he was denied: a first conciliating note from Mr. Delawarr was unanswered—the second met a cold but bitter reply. Both grew angry, and public dispute ended in private dissension.
It is a curious fact, how violent people get upon political questions, particularly if they are such as do not concern them. A sedate-looking gentleman, who lives in Finsbury Square perhaps, and whose money is in the funds, raves about the corn laws: another, in a black coat, forgets to make his Sunday sermon, in the composition of a speech at a meeting for the abolition of West India slavery. But from the affairs of our next-door neighbour, to those of church and state, we take an intense interest in those of others. S,when he came from Brussels, at the time of the revolution, was asked what it was like. "Like?" said he, "why, like a vestry meeting." We talk of vanity, discontent, patriotism; but the real first cause of the passion for politics is the love of talking, inherent in masculine nature.
In the mean time, Edward found that love and politics had been adverse influences on his destiny. His brother's most unlooked-for marriage altered all his prospects as regarded his succession to the Etheringhame title and estates: his difference with Mr. Delawarr closed the principal avenue of his political career. His future path in life must be cleared by himself.
The energy with which he set about the task shewed he was equal to it. He had inherited a handsome property from his mother. True, he had been extravagant, but not irretrievably so. He looked into his affairs. Two years of resolute economy, and his property was free. In two years there would be a general election. Two years of travel and study would equally benefit his fortune and his mind; both would be strengthened to meet the demands of public life.
There are epochs of change in every one's career; and it is in meeting these changes that a man shows his energies. Lorraine's plan was promptly laid down, and its execution was as prompt as its design. His affairs were investigated with that resolute industry which so soon finishes the business it begins. The sale of part of his property cleared the rest. A large portion of his income was put aside to accumulate. Horses, pictures, wines, bijouterie, German meerschaum, and Turkish hookahs, were alike brought to the hammer. His solicitor remonstrated on the loss in such a sale.
"Don't you see," replied his client, laughing, "I am selling my habits with them?"
Satisfied with the present, full of anticipation for the future, Edward took his seat on the mail—the best conveyance in the world for good spirits. It was a bright clear night, with a fresh and buoyant wind. Alas! for the safety of two respectable linen-drapers, and the partner of a great tea house, inside—for Lorraine drove the first forty miles.
"What a pity he should be a gentleman—such a waste!" observed the coachman, when he resigned the reins.
Spain was the country he had decided upon visiting—Spain, as a poet regularly begins,
"Land of the vine and the olive."
It is curious how much of its romantic character a country owes to strangers; perhaps because they know least about it. Edward's motive for visiting it was, simply, that he had never been there before. Leaving vines, olives, the white walls of Cadiz, and the dark eyes of its ladies, to be recorded in his diary, if he kept one, he travelled perfectly alone—sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback—through a considerable part of the country bordering on the sea-coast; when, finding the residence of a Spanish nobleman, to whom he had letters of introduction, marked on his route, he paused at a little village to make inquiry of his way.
The village was pretty enough for a scene in a play. It was literally hidden in a grove, or thicket rather, of orange-trees, at that most beautiful season of their year, when one branch is bowed down with its weight of golden fruit—on another the orange is still of a bright green; while the more shaded boughs are yet in the first luxuriance of their peculiarly odoriferous and delicate flowers—perhaps one of the softest and most beautiful whites in nature. There were but a few cottages, each of them covered with a luxuriant vine, whose glossy verdure reflected back every ray of the setting sun.
It was a saint's day, and the peasants were all out of doors. There were two or three groups of dancers, and the rest were either gathered in a ring round them, or scattered on the grass beneath a few large old chestnut-trees, that must have seen many such generations. The peasants themselves were, as a painter would have said, excellent accessories to the scene: the women were, many of them, pretty; and their profuse black hair, bound up with that simplicity, which is the perfection of good taste.
Uniformity in costume is very picturesque. To name a familiar instance:—how well a family of sisters dressed alike always looks! Each separate individual may be bad; still, as a whole, the effect is creditable. We do not seem sufficiently aware of the beauty of uniformity, or else it is interfered with by our personal vanity. The truth is, that general taste is always good; because, before it becomes general, it has been compared and corrected: but as for individual taste, the less we have of it the better.
The arrival of a stranger produced the effect it always does where such an occurrence is rare. Novelty is pleasure, and pleasure puts people into a good humour. All were ready to crowd round with some little offer of assistance; and when it was discovered that he spoke Spanish, their delight knew no bounds.
People take a traveller's understanding their language as a personal compliment. Edward, besides, was very handsome—a letter of recommendation all the world over; and he possessed that fascination of manner, the secret of whose fairy gift is, ready adaptation of itself to others.
Both himself and his horse fared exceedingly well. One gave him green figs, another oranges: the grapes were yet scarcely ripe; but a little boy, who seemed just to have stepped out of a picture by Murillo, climbed the roof of his father's cottage, and brought from the southern side a sunny-looking bunch, which would not have disgraced Aladdin's garden of rubies.
Hospitality is the virtue of an uncivilised state, because it is then a useful one. It is a wise moral dispensation, that those virtues are most prevalent which are most wanted. A man asks another to dine with him in London, and spends on the said dinner just twice as much as he can afford; while the odds are, that his visitor will be discontented with his reception, envious of his host, and console himself next day by abusing entertainer and entertainment. A man wanders through a desert—is half starved—falls in with an Arab tent, whose owner gives him some goat's milk and dates—he comes home, and raves about the hospitality of the desert. The difference is this: in the one case the dinner was needed, and in the other it was not. We must want a thing before we can value it. Hospitality is, therefore, the virtue of uncivilised, as benevolence should be that of civilised life.
The crowd which had surrounded the traveller gradually dispersed, and Lorraine was left almost alone with a very fine-looking old man, whose free gait bespoke a life of active exertion; and a deep scar on one cheek, evidently a sabre-wound, indicated that it had been of a military nature.
Edward's attention was at first rivetted on two dancers engaged in their graceful national dance, the bolero. What a blessing to a people is a climate that encourages out-of-door amusement! The man was dressed in a brown jacket, without collar, and a crimson sash; a small cloak, managed with the grace of custom, hung on one shoulder, and on his feet he wore the hempen sandals; and, perhaps, from its classic association, a sandal is good, as far as pictorial effect is concerned. With a profusion of coal-black hair, a very dark skin, and a bold, but fine, outline of feature, the youth was a good specimen of the Spanish peasant.
But his companion was beautiful. A rich, flushed colour—large black eyes—teeth that shone from their brilliant whiteness—a slender shape—and most minute feet, in such little shoes of Cordova leather—a silver chain round her neck, to which hung a medal of the Madonna—a dark-brown boddice and short skirt, relieved by a lacing of scarlet riband—long black hair, bound in one large plait round the head, and fastened by a silver bodkin. Such were the picturesque couple who were now performing the evolutions of their dramatic dance, with that exquisite ear for time which makes the gracefulness of dancing.
At the conclusion, Edward turned to his companion, with some remark on the beauty and air of happiness that pervaded the scene. "Your lovely little valley looks as if even a rough wind had never disturbed its tranquillity."
"And yet I remember when for every cottage there stood a smoking heap of ashes; and that little stream "—pointing to a bright brook that ran, touched with the lingering daylight, like a line of amber—"that little stream ran red as the blood which coloured it. Look at the trees, Senhor—they'll witness to the truth of what I am saying."
Lorraine looked, and saw, in spite of the luxuriant foliage, indelible marks of the ravages of fire. The trunks were scorched, and the bark destroyed, in many places; and here and there stood leafless branches, black and charred;—one immense but lifeless bough was directly over their heads.
"Quiet as our valley seems now," said the once fierce Guerilla, "I can remember being lighted home by the blaze of our whole village. It was midnight when I came down the hill; yet, by the firelight, I could see every tree for miles round. I could even distinguish the faces of the officers, who, at the head of the French troopers, were across the plain yonder. It had been well for them if the light had not been quite so strong."
"Your friends—your relatives—had you any?" asked his hearer, hesitatingly.
"Two orphan children; Minora—she that has just been dancing—and her brother. She was then but a little creature, yet so thoughtful, it was as if her dead mother watched and helped her. I never feared to leave Pedro, then a baby, with her. I came home, and saw my cottage, perhaps from being fired the last, burning the brightest of all. Well, the Virgin does work miracles for her servants. I ran down the steep, shouting my children's names from sheer misery—when I heard a low, little sweet voice whisper, 'Father.' I saw my pretty Minora, and her brother holding her hand, both frightened out of their senses, but safe and well. At the first alarm they had run out, and found safety in an old hollow oak-tree, which they had, in play, called their house. They little thought what a home it would be to them. From that hour I took my knife and my musket. Six months afterwards, there was not a Frenchman in the province."
"What did you do with the children?"
"Ah, Senhor, there's a secret. Why, in the wood you will have to pass to-night there's a cave—muleteers will sometimes bring across the line more than custom-house officers think of—and that cave was a safe hiding-place. Well, the good turn it did in concealing those children may balance its other accounts. I took them there—stole to them with provisions whenever I could: they never lived half so well before. You see my Minora's eyes are pretty bright; but for half a year they never saw sunshine."
It was much later than Edward had supposed; but still the extreme beauty of the evening induced him to pursue his journey. He mounted again, and departed, with a thousand good wishes and directions as to the right path. He offered no reward for the kindly treatment he had received; but the two children, whose hearts he had won by a little notice, and who now, with all the earnest gratitude of childhood, insisted on showing the best path through the grove—the children came back, radiant with surprise and pleasure at the parting gift of the English traveller.
It is worth while to travel, if it be only to enjoy the excitement of some entirely new species of natural beauty. Late as it was, Edward reined up his horse to gaze around him. The plain where he was riding was one immense thicket of the gum cistus, whose frail white leaves, just veined with the faintest pink, fell in showers at the least movement of the passer-by. What a prodigality of blossom!—for the gum cistus, born and withered in an hour, is the most ephemeral of flowers. Behind was a range of mountains, composed mostly of huge masses of granite; and the small sparkles on its surface glittered in the moon, which shone directly against them. Before him was a dense shade—the wood through which he had to pass; and over all was a sky so clear, as to be rather light than colour.
The thickets gradually gave way to an open space, where the soft grass seemed unusually fragrant, perhaps from the quantity of thyme that grew among it. Soon a few gigantic trees, of the fir and cork kind, stood forth, like the advanced guard of an army; and Edward was presently in the lone and shadowy depths of the woods: the dark recesses, only visible when a withered tree let the moonlight through its leafless branches, or the white stem of a cork-tree, from which the bark had been stripped, contrasted the sombre trunks around. A young man with much less of poetry in his temperament than Lorraine possessed, would have felt all the romance of his nature rise in such a solitude.
But whatever romantic fantasies the traveller might have felt disposed to indulge, his visions were all disturbed by realities. A cry, as if of sudden terror, rose upon the air. Edward listened attentively, and fancied he discerned the plunging of horses. Without hesitation he rode to the spot, and distinctly heard a voice, apparently in tones of entreaty and lament.
A sudden turn in the road brought him to the objects of his search. Two mules stood by a tree, at whose foot lay a man, either dead or insensible; and kneeling beside was a young cavalier, muffled in a large riding cloak. To dismount and offer his assistance was the work of a moment. Fear seemed almost to have deprived the kneeling youth of articulation: he muttered, rather than spoke, "that his servant was dying," and seemed to abandon himself to all the helplessness of despair.
Edward saw at once that the man had only fainted: he raised his head, loosed his collar, and from his spirit-flask bathed his temples, and succeeded in pouring a few drops down his throat. The patient revived, opened his eyes, but evidently knew no one, and again sank back, if not quite insensible, quite helpless.
"My God! what shall I do?" exclaimed his young comrade, wringing his hands.
Bestowing a true English ejaculation on what he denominated the want of presence of mind in foreigners,—"Do! why, lead the mules to the nearest place of habitation, and I will endeavour to support your servant on my horse—he is both strong and quiet."
Silently but eagerly the stranger went to the horse's head, while Edward raised his companion to the saddle.
"I will lead the mules," said the cavalier: "but where shall we go? Have you travelled any distance?"
"No. They told me at yonder village that Don Henriquez de los Zeridos' was the only habitation near. I am an English traveller, and am going there with a letter of introduction. Will you accompany me?"
"I live there," said the stranger, hastily turning the mules in that direction.
Saving one or two inquiries, or a confused expression of thanks, the young guide pursued his way in silence, till they came to a gateway, which he opened, and, approaching a large but desolate-looking house, sought to attract the attention of its inmates by throwing up pebbles at a window where a dim light was to be seen.
After a few moments' pause, a head was put out of the lattice, and the querulous tones of an old woman inquired the meaning of such an intrusion.
"It is me, Xarifa. Pedro has been taken ill. Do not disturb Donna Margaretta. A stranger waits with me in the yard."
Another short delay followed. At last the door was opened. Edward carried the unfortunate Pedro into a large hall, where stood an elderly female servant, and a negro evidently only half awake. His companion turned to him, and, for the first time, the lamp-light shewed a face of the most perfect beauty. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then said, coldly and calmly, "This is Don Henriquez's house, and I am his daughter."
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
LONDON:
J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.