Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 55
CHAPTER IX.
"Alas! the heart o'eracts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth
Mid darkness and decay. Those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness—
For Peace broods quiet on her dove-like wings—
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,
Dazzling, but hiding not. And some who dwelt
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fevered breast—
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest."
L. E. L.
Who that had looked on that trio, as the young cavalier commenced his narration, but would have thought, "what a fairy like picture of beauty and enjoyment!" The balcony was filled with young orange-trees, wearing the first white promises of coming spring, whose rich perfume blended with the violets heaped below. A little fountain flung up its sparry rain, which then fell on the leaves around, and there lay glistening. Grove and garden were wrapped in that rich purple atmosphere when day has caught the first shadow of night—its softness, but not its gloom. There was a glorious sunset on the other side of the house, but the sky opposite was clear and pale, and only edged towards the west by two or three wandering clouds, whose freight of colour softened from crimson to the faintest rose. A large window opened into the room, whose painted walls looked in the dim light as if life were in their graceful forms. A small statue of Hebe was placed on the balcony, and against that Emily leant, so near that the hues of her own cheek were reflected on the marble.
Lorraine had resolved, if possible, to interest Lady Mandeville in the beautiful but isolated Spanish girl. He had lived too much in society not to be solicitous about its opinion; and was somewhat over-anxious that Beatrice should at once take that place which would meet both her deserts and his wishes. The difference that there is between a woman's love and a man's! His passion may lead him, in the first instance, to act in opposition to opinion—but its influence is only suspended; and soon a sneer or a censure wounds his pride and weakens his love. A woman's heart, on the contrary, reposes more on itself; and a fault found in the object of her attachment is resented as an injury: she is angered, not altered.
Briefly, as briefly as lover could well speak of his mistress, Edward recounted his engagement with Beatrice de los Zoridos; and never, certainly, was narrative less interrupted. Lady Mandeville dared not even look at Emily; and when under the absolute necessity of saying something, the very faculty of speech seemed to desert her. It looked so odd not to reply to Edward with all the kindness he had a right to expect; while it would be so cruel to Emily to congratulate him with any degree of warmth. To her utter astonishment, Emily actually was the first to speak. "Nay, Mr. Lorraine, you ought to canvass me; do you not know that all the gracious countenance Lady Mandeville can extend is mine by pledge and promise? I do not know whether I will allow her to grant the light of her favour to any rival next season—more especially to one so dangerous to the undivided effect I mean to produce, as this beautiful and interesting unknown."
Edward made some deprecatory reply; and Lady Mandeville recovered breath and presence of mind together.
"Positively," exclaimed Madame de Ligne, "I will admit no more of these divided councils—I am tired of monsieur votre mari, because he is tired of me. Mr. Spenser looks sad, and Mr. Brande stupid; Miss Arabin is in an attitude which there is no one to admire, excepting my husband, who is asleep. The saloon is lighted; and I heard some visitors come in as I left it."
Lady Mandeville rose, and drew Emily's arm within her own; she felt it tremble, and press hers convulsively. It was but a moment; the Countess caught Emily's hand, and said, "Come with me, ma mignonne: I have a fancy to-night de faire des tableaux vivans, and your services will be invaluable."
"I shall bring more willingness than ability," replied Emily; "but I will promise to do my best."
The whole party, excepting the two, adjourned to the saloon, which showed sign of the Countess's preparations by a large picture-frame, before which was hung a curtain. In a very brief space the curtain was drawn aside, and showed what seemed a tent. The subject of the picture was Roxelana receiving a present of the Sultan from a young Greek girl. The Countess personified the brilliant coquette to perfection. Half enveloped in a splendid cashmere—the letter of the Sultan flung beneath one very pretty foot, which a furred and scarlet slipper, "bien plus Arabe qu'en Arabie," showed to perfection—a very white arm hung over a pillow of the sofa and round it—the other little hand was clasping an additional chain of gems, which were not so bright as the eyes that were fixed upon them in smiling and sparkling attention. As the Countess herself said, her personification of Roxelana was a triumph of the fine arts. Fortunately, the spectators could not look at one without seeing the other, or Mde. de Ligne would scarcely have been satisfied with the effect produced by her young companion.
Emily had on a long loose white dress, closed round the throat, with a narrow band of gold, and gathered round the waist with another band of gold, only broader. Her arms, enveloped in the large sleeves, were crossed, after the eastern fashion of homage, and she knelt a little in the background at the one end of the sofa. A crimson turban, worn low on the forehead, entirely concealed her hair; and the profile of her face was turned towards the audience. It was impossible to give a more exquisite representation of a young Greek girl, parted from the home of her childhood and her affections. With all the beauty, but none of the brilliancy of youth—the perfect outline of face—the marble-pale cheek, on which rested the long dark eyelash, curled and glistening with unshed tears—the rich relief of the crimson turban, which made the face look even more colourless—the white slender throat—the finely curved mouth, whose deep red seemed that of fever, and wearing
"The sweetness of a smile,
But not its gaiety;"—
the subdued and drooping attitude—nothing could more accurately depict the "delicate Ionian " pining for her own free and mountain village.
The curtain fell, and in a few moments the fair pictures stepped into life. The Countess, to whom activity was enjoyment, and who imagined if people were quiet they must be dull, proposed proverbs. The one they selected for illustration was "chemins divers—même bút"—"divers roads, and the same end." The Countess and Emily were two sisters, each of whom affect an attachment to the cavalier she cares not for, to pique the one they prefers. Mdme. de Ligne, who always considered choice as her privilege, had a fancy for being sentimental; the livelier sister was, therefore, left in Emily's hands. Lorraine and Spenser were to enact the lovers; and the one or two subordinate parts were soon filled up by the rest of the company.
Both Madame de Ligne and Edward acted admirably. Spenser was out of humour, and took his Englishman's privilege of shewing it: but Emily was the charm of the piece. Her vivacity appeared as graceful as it was buoyant; her gay spirit seemed the musical overflowings of youth and happiness; her eye and cheek brightened together; and her sweet glad laugh was as catching as yawning. It is utterly impossible to say more. The little piece was shortened by Madame de Ligne, who, having always looked upon Emily as a pretty painting, had only expected her to make a good side-scene and was more surprised than pleased by a display that cast herself quite into the background.
"Indeed, Ellen," said Lord Mandeville, earnestly, "our little Emily is overacting her part. I grant that Lorraine must be struck with her improvement; but, indeed, there is too much display for attraction."
"You are quite mistaken; but take no notice now," was the reply. "Is it possible," thought Lady Mandeville, "that I have all along been mistaken, and that Emily is really indifferent to Lorraine? Has she hitherto been withheld from expressing her real opinion from deference to mine, and from supposing him to be my favourite?"
This idea was only started to be rejected. A thousand slight but strong circumstances rose to her memory.
"I do believe she had a preference for him; but, alas! amusement is wonderfully in the way of constancy. Emily is a very sweet creature, but it requires strength of mind for strength of attachment."
How little do even our most intimate friends know of us! There is an excitement about intense misery which is its support: light sufferings spring to the lips in words, and to the eyes in tears; but there is a pride in deep passion which guards its feelings from even the shadow of a surmise. 'Tis strange the strength which mingles with our weakness, that even in the suffering which sends the tear to the eye—not to be shed, but there to lie in all its burning and saltness—which swells in the throat but to be forced down again, like nauseous medicine; even in this deep and deadly suffering, vanity finds a trophy of power over which to exult. It is somewhat that speaks of mental command, to think how little the careless and the curious deem of the agony which, like a conqueror, is reigning in misery and desolation within.
"Leaving Naples early to-morrow," exclaimed Lord Mandeville, "and returning to Spain?"
"Yes," replied Edward, "and that must plead my excuse for hurrying away to-night."
"Well, I suppose," returned his host, "I must take no note of your departure;
'For well I wot unwelcome he
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee.'"
"And, considering what I leave behind," said Edward, smiling, and looking towards the bright and gay-looking groups which were flitting through the saloon, "I ought to depart with the two following lines,
'And not a star but shines too bright
On him which takes such timeless flight.'"
"I pity you so very much for leaving us," said Emily, with a sweet glad laugh; for she and Mr. Spenser had been standing near enough to hear all the conversation.
"I have a favour to ask of you, Mandeville," said Lorraine, drawing him a little aside, while he proceeded to recommend Don Henriquez to his protection and assistance, should he arrive in Naples before they left.
"I am so surprised," said Spenser, abruptly, "that Mr. Lorraine should be leaving Naples so immediately."
"Nay," returned Emily, "Spain is a very interesting country, and it was only urgent business that brought him to Naples."
"I should like to know what it was," said Spenser, quite unconscious that he was thinking aloud.
"Never reproach our sex with curiosity," replied Emily; "see how curious you are yourself. I beg leave to tell you, it is something romantic, and very mysterious; and that, to our feminine credit be it known, I am aware of the secret, and do not intend telling it."
"Really," said Miss Arabin, veiling spleen in smiles—its common veil, by the by—"I cannot allow you, Miss Arundel, to stand there flirting the whole evening," they had not been talking five minutes, "with Mr. Spenser. An Englishman is such a rarity here, that he ought to be public property."
Mr. Spenser wished the fair intruder at the devil, at least. Emily felt thankful to her; for Edward at that moment approached to say good night. The pulses of her heart were like the chords of an instrument strung to their highest pitch. She bade him farewell with equal kindness and gaiety, and turned away to waltz with one of their other visitors. She did not see him leave the room, but she heard the door close after him; that slight noise fell like a dead weight upon her ear. At first she listened without understanding what her partner was saying. Again the pride of concealment came to her assistance, and her gay voice and laugh startled Lady Mandeville. She looked earnestly at Emily—the bright eye, the flushed colour, the unusual vivacity, betrayed more than it concealed.
"I was wrong," thought she, "In supposing she felt little, because she controlled it—she has more self-command than I gave her credit for. The desire of hiding a disappointment is one great step towards conquering it altogether. My part must be to observe her as little as possible. I always did, and always shall, doubt the advantages of consolation. There's now a prospect for Cecil Spenser—many a heart is caught in the rebound."
At last the evening came to a close. Madame de Ligne was glad of it; for it had brought the disagreeable conviction, that Emily had produced more effect than herself. Spenser was glad of it; for he was not quite satisfied with Miss Arundel's gaiety. Lord Mandeville was glad of it; for his curiosity was waiting to be gratified—and curiosity, like a post-man, dislikes to be kept waiting. Miss Arabin was glad of it; for it would be some comfort to vent upon her maid the rage excited by Spenser's indifference. Lady Mandeville was equally rejoiced to see her guests depart; for she was both anxious and weary; and as she was under the necessity of telling her husband how completely mistaken she had been, the sooner it was told the better. So much for the enjoyment of such a pleasant party, composed of such delightful people!
"Emily, love," said Lady Mandeville, "you have exerted yourself so much this evening, that you must be tired—there now, go at once, like a good child, to bed."
Emily took the lamp: it was a relief, that Lady Mandeville evidently had no intention of being either consoling or confidential. She longed, yet dreaded, to be by herself—she felt as if another minute, and the throbbing head and beating heart could be subdued no longer. She left the room quiet and smiling.
"Thank God!" exclaimed she, as she found herself in her own chamber, "I am alone."
The proof that keen feelings are incompatible with happiness is shown in the fact, that the young commit suicide, the old never. The old have outlived that mental world we so misname in calling it a world of enjoyment;—they have outlived the feverish dreams which waste those keen hopes—the pelicans of the heart, feeding on the life-blood of their parent;—they have now no part in the excitement of success, whether in its desire or disappointment. Delicate food, the card-table, money, are the delights of old age; and do we, then, become content in proportion as our contentment becomes of "the earth, earthy?" Are the feelings that redeem, the aspirations that dignify our nature, only like the ancient tyrant's machine of torture, which, under the semblance of beauty, stabbed the bosom which clung to it? Who is there that has not, at some period or other, paused, as it were, upon existence, to look to the past with sorrow, the present with weariness, the future with loathing? and when has such pause been made but in youth?
The difference between past grief and past joy is this—that if the grief recurred again to-day, we should feel it as bitterly as ever; but if the joy returned, we should no longer have the same delight in it.
There are many paths to lead to this (as the little matrimonial maps call it) rock of disappointment. Emily had trodden but one—it was short and bitter enough—that of unrequited affection. Early solitude had increased the power of imagination—early indulgence had weakened her moral, as much as delicate health had relaxed her physical energy. Love, to a girl who has lived secluded from the world, is a very different thing from love to a girl who has lived in society: sentiment will be the Scylla of the one, as vanity will be the Charybdis of the other.
The keen feeling, the high-toned romance of Emily's character, had she been more accustomed to the harsh realities of life, or been placed in circumstances where exertion was a necessity, would have been sweet and kindly guards against the selfishness contracted in the world: but left to be that character's sole matériel, there was no strength to meet sorrow, no reality to ballast romance. A chain of small but unfortunate events had brought her into continual contact with Lorraine. Daily intercourse first gave attachment all the force of habit;—loneliness next gave all the refining exaggeration of utterly unemployed fancy;—and love had become to Emily an imaginary world, where thoughts, hopes, feelings, were all gathered and confided. The wreck was total—as total as that ever is which trusts its all to one argosy. The great happiness-secret, after all, is division. How dare we, in this vain, fleeting world, concentrate our whole freight of interest in one frail bark?
The night was oppressively hot—perhaps the weight at her own heart added to the oppression. She drew to the open window, purple with the night-shadows, made dimly distinct by here and there a distant star; the gulf beneath blended in the darkness, till but one atmosphere seemed both above and below, sometimes illumined by flashes of phosphoric light—meteors that might have suited sea or sky, and, broken by two or three ridges of foam, seen in obscurity, like lines of snow. Her first burst of passionate grief was over, and the relief it gave was over too;—the hysteric rush of long-suppressed tears is enjoyment, compared to the hopeless despondency which succeeds. Emily looked down on the calm deep waters, and wished that she were sleeping beneath them. For her the wide world was a desolation;—she felt but the misery of loving in vain, and the shame which heightens such misery.
Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present. Every cause she had for regret rose upon her mind. She thought upon her utterly isolated situation;—the ties of blood, or of that early affection which supplies their place, were to her but names. She had no claim of kindred, or even of habit, on any living creature—no one in the world whom she could say really loved her, or to whose love she had a right. True, Lady Mandeville had been kind, very kind—but she had so many others to love; and Emily, somewhat forgetful of the real affection ever shewn to herself, thought but of the utter want of sympathy between their characters, and shrank from the imaginary picture of that gay temper and sparkling wit being turned against herself. And the next year was to be passed in all the gaiety of London! She was then to join in crowds—all the hurry, all the exertion of pleasure! To be subject to meeting Edward Lorraine, and perhaps his; but, even to herself, she did not finish the sentence. "Quiet, quiet," exclaimed she; "It is all I ask—not to be seen—not to be spoken to. Would to God I were with the only human being that ever loved me—in the grave!"
The remembrance of her uncle again brought the tears to her eyes; her face was hidden in her hands; slowly the large drops fell through her slender fingers. Life knows such tears but once.
At this moment the tones of music came upon the wind; at first faint, as if the soft notes had not yet travelled the air, but soon richly distinct in its swell and its softness. Emily had often before listened to that midnight hymn. By moonlight, the white walls and green cypresses were easily seen;—to-night, the dark outline of the little hill was rather fancied than visible. The sound was a sweet and familiar one to Emily; but in her present state of excited feeling, it came like a voice from heaven. It was as if a sign had showed her a place of rest. She thought on the dim light—the monumental repose—the silence of the small chapel—the still, shadowy garden—the veiled figures that have exchanged hope for repose, and offer to their God that heart of which the world is unworthy. The last echo died over the waters; and Emily's resolution was taken.
Early the next morning, the party met at breakfast, all equipped for an excursion to Count Orsini's exquisite villa. They were becoming impatient for Emily's appearance, when a message was delivered, making her excuses for not joining them, under the feminine and frequent plea of a violent headach.
Lord and Lady Mandeville exchanged glances. "Had you not better, Ellen," said he, drawing her into the recess of the window, "go to her?"
"I think not. Between ourselves, solitude is the best remedy for her headach. She is at present too much under the influence of recent disappointment to control her feelings;—to betray them will be to confide them—and a confidant is the worst thing in the world. Vanity will, after a little time, come into play; and the grief that is concealed is half subdued."
"Now, my dear Ellen, confess that you do not know what to say. You have, if not directly, yet indirectly, kept alive the romantic fancy of Miss Arundel for Lorraine. You thought of the match as suitable, till it almost seemed certain. You were neither prepared for the disappointment, nor, I fear, for the keenness with which that disappointment will be felt."
"There, now, do not make out the case worse than it really is. Change of scene, and a new lover, are infallible specifics, always supposing there is no character for constancy to be supported: if I witness the violent sorrow of to-day, I impose upon to-morrow the necessity of being sorry also. Our hurry—a wish not to disturb her, as she has the headach, so early—are valid excuses for not seeing her this morning. If there is depression, let us not seem to notice it;—let us speak as usual of Lorraine. New objects, new amusements, will occupy her mind; and unhappiness, equally unsuspected and unspoken, will die of its own nonentity."
"Well, Ellen, I suppose one woman knows best what the feelings of another woman are; but I do think you might reason with her."
"Reason on an affair of the heart!"
Their conversation was now interrupted by the rest of the party becoming impatient to depart. Leaving a kind message for Emily, Lady Mandeville stepped into the carriage, with spirits more depressed than she would willingly have admitted. Perhaps, had she seen Emily that morning, Miss Arundel's whole destiny might have been altered. But Life's great circumstances turn on its small ones. Could we see into the causes of all important events, we should often find that some small and insignificant trifle has been, as it were, their fate.
If any thing could have increased the bitterness of Emily's feelings, it was Lady Mandeville's leaving the house that morning without approaching her: she seemed so neglected, so friendless. She knew that the effect of yesterday's discovery was no secret to Lady Mandeville; and yet, for a few hours' careless amusement, she could leave her without one word of kindness or comfort. Emily's last, perhaps her most painful tears, were shed as she heard the carriages drive from the door. She was mistaken in accusing Lady Mandeville of unkindness; but both were wrong in their judgments. Emily's was unjust, as a judgment formed under one overruling feeling always is; and Lady Mandeville erred in applying a general rule to a particular case.
Which is it most difficult to judge for—others or ourselves? The judgment given in ignorance, or that biassed by passion—which is best? Alas, for human sagacity! and that which is to depend on it—human conduct! Look back on all the past occurrences of our lives;—who are there that, on reflection, would not act diametrically opposite to what they formerly acted on impulse? No one would do the same thing twice over. Experience teaches, it is true; but she never teaches in time. Each event brings its lesson, and the lesson is remembered; but the same event never occurs again.