Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 27
CHAPTER III.
"He seemed
To common lookers on like one who dreamed
Of idleness in groves Elysian. Ah, well-a-day!
Why should our young Endymion pine away?"
Keats.
"The fateful day passed by; and then there came
Another and another."—Marcian Colonna.
"Do you know this Lord Etheringhame, of whom I hear such romantic histories?" said Adelaide Merton to her brother.
"Not I. There's devilish good shooting in his woods; but they say he won't let a creature come near his grounds—he can't bear to see any body."
"How very interesting!"
"A great fool."
"It is a noble place."
"He is not married, Adelaide."
"Do you know," said the lady, reining her horse closer to her brother's, with whom, faute de mieux, she was riding, "I have taken a strange whim into my head? Now, Alfred, do let us contrive an introduction to this most unsociable gentleman. I am dying of ennui at my uncle's, and it would be quite an adventure."
"You are mighty clever—always were, in managing your own matters—not so stupid as you think me. What do you want with Lord Etheringhame?"
"Want with him! Nothing but the pleasure of doing what nobody else could—gaining admittance into this inhospitable castle."
"Fine shooting," again muttered Lord Merton; "and if I knew Lord Etheringhame, he might ask me to shoot over his grounds."
Campbell talks of the magic of a name—yes, if the name be partridges.
"Well, Adelaide; but how do you mean to contrive it?"
"The very elements conspire for me," replied Adelaide, pointing to two or three raindrops on her habit. "We are now in the only permitted road of the Park; but young people are very thoughtless. These fine old trees, a good point of view, tempt us to diverge—we take this road," turning her horse into one closely shaded by beech: "this, after a few more turns, brings us to a kind of pavilion. By that time—I do like showery weather—yonder black cloud will oblige us with its contents. You insist on my taking shelter in the pavilion: there we find Lord Etheringhame. We are distressed beyond measure at the intrusion—so surprised at finding him there. Talk of my delicate health: your romantic gentlemen have a great idea of delicacy. Leave the rest to me."
"Be sure you turn the conversation on shooting."
But the rain, which now began to fall in good earnest, somewhat hurried their proceedings. A smart gallop brought them to the pavilion. A gallop always puts people in a good humour; and Merton helped his sister to dismount more amiably than she expected.
They entered; and, sure enough, there was Lord Etheringhame. The intelligence of that purveyor of ringlets and reports, her maid, was true, that here he usually spent his mornings. Apologies, and assurances that apologies were needless—exclamations at the weather, filled up the first ten minutes.
The surprise was something of a shock; but people may be frightened into their wits as well as out of them; and the necessity for exertion usually brings with it the power—and really Lord Etheringhame succeeded wonderfully well. Conversation became quite animated; the beauty of the scenery led to painting; painting to poetry. It was singular how well they agreed. It was very true Adelaide had read little more than the title-page of the works they talked about; but where a person is predetermined to acquiesce comparative criticism is particularly easy. Perhaps his constitutional timidity had done more towards banishing Etheringhame from society than his melancholy; perhaps that shame attendant on change of opinion, however justifiable, (we hate to contradict ourselves, it is so rude,) also supported the claims of a seclusion which had long been somewhat wearisome: but here time had not been given him for thick-coming fancies—and he found himself talking, nay, laughing, with a very lovely creature, and secretly asking himself, where was the embarrassment of it?
But neither showers nor any other means of human felicity, ever last. The clouds broke away, and the sun shone most provokingly in at the windows—a fact instantly stated by Lord Merton, who was getting very tired of a conversation which as yet had not turned on his sort of game.
Adelaide was too scientific to prolong her stay: she had made her impression, and never had she looked more lovely. The slight, finely turned shape was seen to advantage in the close habit; its dark colour was in good contrast to a cheek flushed into the purest and most brilliant crimson by exercise; while her bright hair, relaxed by the rain, hung down in that half-curled state, perhaps its most becoming. A lingering hope of the covies gave unusual animation to her brother's manner, when he hoped their acquaintance was only begun: here Adelaide interposed:
"Mamma would be so delighted to offer her thanks. I am such a spoiled child, that every thing is of consequence. You do not know what an important thing a cold of mine is. But really we are such quiet people, I am afraid to ask you where there is so little inducement, unless"—and here she laughed one of those sweet frank laughs of childish reliance—"unless you come to see ourselves."
What could a gentleman say but yes—"such quiet people," "only ourselves?" Why, a refusal would be downright rude: nothing like putting a person under an obligation of doing what they wish. Our recluse said, "He must do himself the honour of inquiring if Lady Adelaide had taken cold."
Off they rode, and left a blank behind. Etheringhame took up a book, and thought how much pleasanter it was to talk than to read. He walked out—looked at his watch—wondered it was not later—wished dinner were ready; in short, was in that most uncomfortable situation—of a young gentleman who has nothing to do: went to bed, and spent a restless night.
"Very well managed," said Adelaide, as they rode that morning away from the pavilion.
"I am sure," rejoined Merton, "I would not have gone in but for your promise about the shooting. Not a word did you say, though:—you won't find it so easy to take me in again."
"Wait a little, my good brother, and when those manors are at my feet, you shall shoot over them till you have killed partridges enow for a pyramid."
A single "humph"—much the same sort of reply as the swine made to the lady in love with him—was the fraternal answer; and they proceeded homewards.
With all the pleasant consciousness of meritorious endeavour and successful pursuit, did Adelaide hasten to her mother's dressing-room, which only that very morning had been the scene of most ungracious recrimination,—the daughter complaining bitterly of a summer of life's most important, i.e. most marriageable time, being wasted in a neighbourhood whose only resemblance to heaven was, that there was neither marrying nor giving in marriage,—there was not so much as a widower in the county. Certainly, her uncle Mr. Stanmore's residence, where they were upon a visit, had but a poor perspective for a young lady with speculation in her eyes. The mother, in return, eloquent on the folly of flirtation, and the involvement of debt—said Edward Lorraine might have been secured—and the parties had separated in sullen silence.
Lady Lauriston was therefore proportionably surprised to see the young lady re-enter, all smiles, eagerness, and apologies. Her adventures were soon recounted—plans formed—and assistance promised. Lord Etheringhame's noble descent and nobler fortune rose in vivid perspective.
The next morning Lady Adelaide was surprised by her visitor at her harp. The open window and the figure were quite a picture—and Algernon had an eye for the picturesque. The Countess, however, only allowed time for effect, and entered. Conversation was soon pleasantly and easily begun. Nothing like feminine facilities for discourse; and with little talent and less information,—but with a tact, which, commenced by interest and sharpened by use, stood in lieu of both,—Lady Lauriston was a woman with whom it would be as wearisome to talk as it would be to perambulate long a straight gravel walk and neatly arranged flowers; but the first approach was easy—nay, even inviting. Lady Adelaide was what the French term spirituelle—one of those epithets which, like their bijouterie and souvenirs, are so neatly turned. Both saw at a glance that the common topics of the day would have reduced Algernon to silence;—he could take no part where he was so profoundly ignorant. Each, therefore, aided the other in guiding the dialogue to general subjects of taste, blent with a little tone of sentiment.
Imperceptibly the morning slipped away. Mr. Stanmore came in. Lady Lauriston confessed the early hours they kept. Dinner was just ready, and Lord Etheringhame staid; and after, when the gentlemen were left to their wine tête-à-tête—for Merton was from home—the uncle unconsciously forwarded all their plans. A plain, good man, whose kindness was the only obstacle to his shrewdness, and who, if sometimes wrong in his judgment, was only so from leaning to the favourable side, Mr. Stanmore was rejoiced to see his neighbour, though but for a day, leave a seclusion which very much militated against the ideas of one whose utility was of the most active description. A man of less warmth of heart might have been too indifferent—one of more refinement too delicate—to touch on Lord Etheringhame's habits. A kindly intention is often the best eloquence; and whether the prosperity of an argument, like that of a jest, lies in the ear of him who hears, certainly Mr. Stanmore had not his arguments so frequently followed by conviction. But the repose of our recluse had lately been broken in upon by divers and vexatious complaints. Grievances to be redressed, leases to be renewed, and a few plain facts of the mismanagement and even misconduct of those around him, stated by an eye-witness, brought forcibly forward the evil of his indolent solitude. Hitherto he had consoled himself by that most mischievous of axioms—It hurts no one but myself. He was now obliged to acknowledge that it injured others also;—and when Mr. Stanmore proposed a ride round a part of the estate now in sad and wasteful disorder, it met with ready acquiescence from his guest.
The evening passed delightfully. Adelaide soon found that talking of his brother was a great source of pride and pleasure to Algernon, in whom she forthwith expressed great interest, but of the most subdued and quiet kind. The avowal that a gentleman is a young man whom every one must admire, never implies any very peculiar admiration on the part of the speaker; still, the acquaintance was a bond of union between them. The character that Adelaide was now supporting was one of unbroken spirits and natural vivacity, with an under-tone of deep feeling which as yet had never been called forth. The liveliness was on the principle of contrast—the feeling on that of sympathy. For a love affair, a mixture of the two is perfect. Love is at once the best temptation for a hermit, and the best cure for a misanthrope.
All the evening he thought her most fascinating; but when, on his departure, both Mr. Stanmore and Lady Lauriston pressed the renewal of his visit, she looked towards him with a sweet, sudden glance of hope—and then dropped her eyes with such an exquisite mixture of eagerness and embarrassment, he felt she was quite irresistible. Vanity is love's visier, and often more powerful than his master.
Lord Etheringhame rode home slowly and musingly. A thousand delicious sensations quickened the beating of his pulses;—a beautiful face floated before him—a delicate voice sounded, fairy-like, in his ear; all of imagination which had lain dormant sprang up again—like colours in a painting brought from some dusty corner into a clear, bright light.
We talk of the folly of dreams—the waking and the vain—we should rather envy their happiness:—analyse their materials—foresee their end—and what remains? Vanity and vexation of spirit.
Much it would have added to Lord Etheringhame's enjoyment, could he have known that his feelings were being calculated upon by a beautiful coquette and a match-making mother; that it was his castle that was more matter of conquest than himself; and that his family diamonds were his fair mistress's only idea of domestic felicity!
Oh, Life!—the wearisome, the vexatious—whose pleasures are either placed beyond our reach, or within it when we no longer desire them—when youth toils for the riches, age may possess but not enjoy;—where we trust to friendship, one light word may destroy; or to love, that dies even of itself;—where we talk of glory, philosophical, literary, military, political—die, or, what is much more, live for it—and this coveted possession dwells in the consent of men of whom no two agree about it. First, let us take it in its philosophical point of view: the philosopher turns from his food by day, his sleep by night, to leave a theory of truth to the world, which the next age discovers to be a falsehood. Ptolemy perhaps bestowed as much thought on, and had as much pride in his solar system as Galileo.—Then in its literary, and truly this example is particularly encouraging: the poet feeds the fever in his veins—works himself up to the belief of imaginary sorrows, till they are even as his own— writes, polishes, publishes—appeals first to a generous and discriminating public, then discovers that posterity is much more generous, and discriminating also—and bequeaths his works to its judgment. Of the hundred volumes entitled "The British Poets," are there one dozen names "familiar as household words" (that true glory of the poet) among them?—Come we next to the military: the conqueror Alexander, in the danger and hurry of a night attack, when the flash of the sword and the glitter of the spear were the chief lights of the dark wave, dashed fearlessly on, encouraging himself with the thought, "This do I for your applause, oh Athenians!" It would be very pleasant to the warrior, could he hear the Athenians of our age call him a madman and a butcher!—The politician—oh, Job! the devil should have made you prime minister—set the Tories to impeach your religion, the Whigs your patriotism—placed a couple of Sunday newspapers before you—he certainly would have succeeded in making you curse and swear too; and then posterity—it will just be a mooted point for future historians, whether you were the saviour, the betrayer, or the tyrant of your country, those being the three choice epitaphs kept for the especial use of patriots in power.
Or—to descend to the ordinary ranks and routine of life—we furnish a house, that our friends may cry out on our extravagance or bad taste;—we give dinners, that our guests may hereafter find fault with our cook or our cellar;—we give parties, that three parts of the company may rail at their stupidity;—we dress, that our acquaintance may revenge themselves on our silks, by finding fault with our appearance;—we marry; if well, it was interest—if badly, it was insanity;—we die, and even that is our own fault; if we had but done so and so, or gone to Dr. such a one, the accident would not have happened. A man accepts a bill for his friend, who pays it—the obligation is held trifling. "What's in a name?" He fails—you have to pay it, and every one cries out against your folly. Oh, Life! what enables us to surmount your obstacles—to endure your disappointments—to believe your promises—but your illusions?
There is a pretty German story of a blind man, who, even under such a misfortune, was happy—happy in a wife whom he passionately loved: her voice was sweet and low, and he gave her credit for that beauty which (he had been a painter) was the object of his idolatry. A physician came, and, curing the disease, restored the husband to light, which he chiefly valued, as it would enable him to gaze on the lovely features of his wife. He looks, and sees a face hideous in ugliness! He is restored to sight, but his happiness is over. Is not this our own history? Our cruel physician is Experience.
Lord Etheringhame, however, was enjoying himself. No illusions are so perfect as those of love—none, therefore, so pleasant. Like most imaginative people, Algernon was very susceptible to beauty. Perhaps it is with that attribute they so profusely endow their creations, and it comes to them with the charm of familiarity. And also, like most indolent people, he easily yielded to any impression: his character may be summed up by saying, he would have made an exquisite woman.
In the course of a few weeks the surprise excited in his household was raised to its height; for the housekeeper had orders to prepare a luncheon for a party coming to see the castle. The day arrived, and with it Lady Lauriston and her daughter. Enough had been heard of its history, to know that the study would be rather awkward as a show-room in company; but a tête-à-tête is so confidential. With a little of mamma's assistance, Adelaide contrived to separate from the others, enter the room alone, and Lord Etheringhame was obliged to follow. "Constancy till death" is a common motto on glass seals—very proper substance for such an inscription; and before the picture of his late love, Algernon offered his vows to the new. Sympathy and confidence open the heart wonderfully; and Adelaide left that room the future Countess of Etheringhame.
Lady Lauriston was astonished and affected, after the most approved fashion. Mr. Stanmore was really surprised; and having some idea that it was a man's duty to marry, (he had had two wives himself), was very ready with his rejoicings and congratulations, which Lady Lauriston diverted most ingeniously from the lover, whose nerves she still considered in a most delicate state.
One disagreeable part of the business remained for Algernon, which was to write to his brother. Change of opinion is like waltzing—very much the fashion, and very proper; but the English have so many ridiculous prejudices, that they really do both as if they were doing something very wrong.
It is to be doubted whether Lord Etheringhame, after destroying some dozen sheets of paper, and pens the produce of a whole flock of geese, would not almost sooner have renounced his beautiful bride, than have had his letter to write—only that the former alternative was now the greater trouble of the two.
"After all," said the unwilling writer, "I am only doing what Edward himself advised. I wish I had not been quite so positive when he was last here."
All who hate letter-writing, particularly on disagreeable subjects, can sympathise with Lord Etheringhame. It is very pleasant to follow one's inclinations; but, unfortunately, we cannot follow them all. They are like the teeth sown by Cadmus; they spring up, get in each other's way, and fight.
The letter was at length written and despatched;—then, as usual, came the after-thoughts of a thousand things left unsaid, or that might have been said so much better. Algernon started up;—man and horse were hurried after the epistle;—but time, tide, and the post, wait for no one;—it was off by the mail.
Well, an obstinate temper is very disagreeable, particularly in a wife; a passionate one very shocking in a child; but, for one's own particular comfort, Heaven help the possessor of an irresolute one! Its day of hesitation—its night of repentance—the mischief it does—the miseries it feels!—its proprietor may well exclaim, "Nobody can tell what I suffer but myself!"