Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 59
CHAPTER XIII.
"Often from our weaknesses our strongest principles of conduct are born; and from the acorn which a breeze has wafted springs the oak which defies the storm."
Devereux.
"We understand the whole city was in a state of revolution."
Daily Paper.
There was a singular degree of similarity and difference in the characters of Emily and Beatrice. Both had strong feelings, poetical imaginations—and both had lived much in solitude; but Emily's feelings had been left to her imagination, and her solitude had been that of reverie and idleness. Beatrice's feelings, on the contrary, had been early taught the necessity of restraint; her imagination, curbed by action, had only been allowed to colour, not create circumstance; and her solitude had been one of constant and useful employment. Both had much mental cultivation; but Emily's was accomplishment—Beatrice's was information. The one dreamed—the other thought. The one, only accustomed to feel, acted from impulse—the other, forced to reflect, soon formed for herself a standard of principle. Emily was governed by others—Beatrice relied on herself. Emily loved Lorraine as the first idol which her feelings had set up, an almost ideal object—Beatrice loved him from a high sense of appreciation. The English girl would have died beneath the first danger that threatened her lover—the Spaniard would have stood the very worst by his side. Both were sweet in temper, gentle in step and voice, and refined in taste.
Emily's history was soon told, with the exception of a name; and their intercourse continued to be equally unrestrained and affectionate, with a single mental reservation. Emily marvelled how one beloved by Lorraine could ever have endured to separate from him; and Beatrice secretly wondered at the weakness which had renounced faith, friends, and home, for a passion which seemed wholly founded on imagination. True it is, that we judge of others' actions by our own—but then we do not make the same allowances.
Time passed away quickly, as time does when unbroken by any particular event. The restraint and superstitious folly of the convent were becoming every day more and more distasteful. Beatrice, too, had opened another source of remorse to her companion. Hitherto, Emily had never considered the rash step she had taken in a religious point of view. Like too many others, religion had been with her matter of general acknowledgment and general observance. She repeated her prayers, because she had been accustomed so to do; she went to church, because others did; but she had never looked to her God for support—to her Bible for a rule of action. There are more practical infidels from indifference than from disbelief.
Beatrice was at first astonished to find how little interest the English girl, who had been brought up in a faith so pure, so Christian, took in subjects that were to her of such vital importance. We ask for miracles: is not our own blindness a perpetual miracle? We live amid the blessings that Christianity has diffused through the smallest occurrences of our daily life;—we feel hourly within us that pining for some higher state, whose promise is in the Gospel;—our weakness daily forces us to look around for support;—we admit the perfection of the Saviour's moral code;—we see the mighty voice of prophecy, that spoke aloud of old upon the mountains, working year by year their wonderful fulfilment,—and yet we believe not, or, if we believe, we delay acting upon that belief.
Out of evil cometh good. The attention that might have been diverted—the conviction that might have been darkened in the world—were both given entire to the faith that dawned on the subdued and enlightened mind of Emily Arundel. The Bible of Beatrice was their only religious book; but it was read with that simple and earnest belief by which the dark is soonest made light, and the crooked path made straight.
Beatrice saw, however, that her friend's health was rapidly declining. Almost hourly her slight form became more shadowy—her large bright eyes still brighter and larger—her cheek varied from a clear, cold paleness, to a rich but feverish crimson. Her beauty was like that which we image of a spirit, or as if it refined and became more heavenly as it drew nearer to its native heaven. She could also see, that, with all the restless anxiety of an invalid, she pined for her own country. "If I could but die in England!" was her haunting thought; —a wish vain indeed; for Beatrice saw clearly that the victim was more closely watched than ever. She herself, too, was observed with something of suspicion. A note she sent to Pachetti was opened before her; and during an interview with him, an elder nun remained the whole time within ear-shot of the grating. Moreover, she had her own sources of anxiety. Nothing had been heard of her father; and though most ample time had elapsed for Lorraine's return to Naples, she had neither seen nor heard of him.
The principal events in life are generally unexpected. One afternoon, when Emily's being very unwell had been admitted as sufficient excuse for her absence from the service, the friends had gone together to the convent garden, which garden, it is necessary to observe, lay on the side of the hill: a flight of stone steps led into it, and it was separated from the convent by a wall and a paved court. Emily was too ill for any employment; but Beatrice had brought her embroidery. Seated beneath the shadowy cedar, the hour flew rapidly, when they were startled by loud and uncommon noises. A heavy trampling of steps—clashing as if of swords—several rounds of musketry—screams —shouts—rose in the direction of the court. Each started from her seat; but the walls intercepted their sight, till light and broken masses of smoke ascended, evidently from fire-arms. Faint with terror, Emily sunk against the tree.
"With whom are the Neapolitans at war?" exclaimed her companion, to whose mind the idea of foreign invasion naturally rose.
The sounds grew louder—the smoke became denser and darker.
"Gracious Heaven! they have fired the convent!"
A glare of flame now threw a fearful and wild light against the black body of smoke which hung over it. The firing ceased;—one loud shout rose, and then sank into silence. The clashing of arms was over; but the steps sounded louder and more hurried: they could distinguish a cry for water.
"At least," said Beatrice, "we will move from the fountain." With much difficulty, she half supported, half carried Emily behind a little thicket of the broad-leaved myrtle. "We are here secure from instant observation."
Even as she spoke, a party of men dashed down the steps. One, who appeared their leader, paused and looked round for a moment. His quick eye saw the well; and he approached, motioning with his hand for the advance of his followers, who were all carrying what seemed to be carpets, or rather tapestry. Beatrice now recognised the hangings of the refectory. They brought them to the well; and, apparently obeying the directions of their captain, plunged them into the water, and then hurried back with them saturated with moisture. The chief was following, when he was detained by a tall, dark-looking man, who appeared to speak earnestly; but his stopping made him turn his face to the myrtle thicket. In another moment Beatrice was in the arms of her father.
"Your appearance, madam," said the stranger, "Is a most powerful argument in favour of my advice."
Advice generally does require some very powerful argument to be taken.