Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 47
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CHAPTER I.
"Her silent face is saintly pale,
And sadness shades it like a veil;
A consecrated nun she seems,
Whose waking thoughts are deep as dreams."
Wilson.
"But the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again."
Moore.
Courtesy and curiosity are very often at variance. With a hurried apology, Lorraine had been shown into a large, gloomy-looking apartment, where he was left to his own thoughts and a small lamp. The moon, now at its full, shone directly into the room, shedding a sad and softened light, which somewhat concealed the ravages of time, or what seemed the work of that even worse spoiler—man. The floor had been paved with alternate squares of different-coloured marbles: it had been dilapidated in many places, and the vacancies filled with common stone. The panels of the wall were of various and beautiful woods inlaid in fanciful patterns, while the cornices and divisions were of marble carved exquisitely, and the ceiling had been painted to resemble a summer sky. There was now scarcely a space uninjured: the cornices were broken away; the panels had initial letters and uncouth faces rudely cut upon them; and on one side there was a number of small round holes, such as would be produced by a shower of shot, and a few larger ones that indicated bullets. The roof was smoked and scorched; and two pictures hung at one end, or rather their frames—for a black and smouldered canvass showed that fire had destroyed the work of the painter.
Still, there were signs of human habitation, and some of female ingenuity. At the upper window, a fine old vine had been carefully trained both inside and out, till it served the purpose of a curtain. Near it was a high-backed chair, covered with embroidered silk, whose rich bright colours showed it had but lately left the skilful hand of its worker. The floor beneath was spread with matting of the fragrant grass of the country: beside stood a small table of inlaid wood, and a cushion was at the feet, also worked with embroidered flowers. Against the wall were hung two or three crayon drawings: the moonlight showed the upper one to be a Madonna and Child—the others were hidden by the shadow of the vine-leaves, which fell directly upon them. A crucifix, made of black oak—a few shelves, which seemed crowded with books—a case, which appeared, from its shape, to contain a lute or guitar—and two or three small chairs, of the same dark wood, stood near; but the rest of the room was utterly unfurnished.
The destruction wrought by time never oppresses the spirits as does that wrought by man. The fallen temple—the mouldering tower, grey with moss, and stained with rain,—seem but to have submitted to the inevitable doom of all; and the ruin time has made, time also hallows. But the devastated home and perished household—man's sorrow following fast upon man's guilt—tells too near a tale of suffering. The destruction in the one case is gradual and far removed from us—in the other, it may be sudden and fall even on our own home. War, even in the distant battle of a foreign land, is terrible and sorrowful enough; but what is the agony of bloodshed in the far warfare to that poured at our own doors, and quenching the fire of our own hearth!
Edward paced the room mournfully: he gazed on the slight remains of taste which had turned wealth to beauty. But the most touching part of all, was to mark the effort that had been made to restore something of comfort and appearance. He thought of the beautiful face he had seen for a moment—it looked very young to have known much of suffering. The door of the room opened, and the negro appeared, bringing in supper; and the little table was soon spread. There was a flask of light wine, a melon, some bread, and fried fish. And with all the volubility of his race, Cæsar explained, that the ladies sent their excuses, and that to-morrow they hoped to make him personally welcome.
A solitary supper is soon despatched. The negro then showed Lorraine to his sleeping-room, almost deafening him with apologies. It is a good sign when servants take the credit of their master's house so much to heart. An immense room, and a gigantic bed with dark-green hangings, were gloomy enough for either ghosts or banditti, to whichever terror the traveller might most incline. But a bright wood fire drew at least round itself a cheerful circle, within which Lorraine found he was to sleep. The floor had been laid with heath and goat-skins, and on them more comfortable bedding than a traveller ought ever to consider necessary. The huge green bed was evidently too old and mouldy for use.
Considering that it was near one, and that he had ridden some thirty miles, Edward might be excused for sleeping soundly, even, as the newspapers say, "under circumstances of the greatest excitement." He was awakened by the glad light of the morning sun pouring full into his chamber, and showing the past luxury and present desolation by which he was surrounded. The floor, the wainscoting, were of mahogany—the walls were hung with the finest tapestry—and there were occasional spaces in which large mirrors had been set: but the mahogany was rough and discoloured, the tapestry rent and faded, and the mirrors either wholly gone, and their places filled by matting, or by fragments smashed and shivered in every direction. The floor near the window was stained as if by heavy and long-continued rain; and the casement was now repaired by different kinds of coarse glass, and the one or two larger openings by slips of wood.
The view from the window was splendid. On one side, a dense wood of oak and cork trees spread its impenetrable but beautiful barrier; on the other, an undulating country shewed every variety of vineyard, heath, and grove: the vines emerald in their green—the orange-groves, whose flowers, mingled with the wild thyme on the heath, scented the dew, which rose like a cloud of incense, silvery and fragrant. Gradually the mist cleared away, the distant mountains came out in full and bold relief, and the winding river grew golden in the sunshine.
Edward was leaning from the casement, when Cæsar made his appearance with information that Donna Margaretta waited breakfast. He followed the old man into the room where he had been the night before, and seated in the arm-chair was the lady whom his young companion addressed as her mother. With the first word she spoke, her guest recognised that peculiar insular accent which none but a native of England ever acquires. We rarely pay much attention to what neither concerns nor interests us; and Edward had forgotten that Don Juan had married an Englishwoman. She was a slight, girlish-looking creature, with fair hair nearly concealed by the veil which was drawn round her head like a hood, but which in its simplicity rather added to her very youthful face—there was something of the grace of childhood with which she bade a countryman welcome "under any circumstances," slightly glancing at the dilapidated room:—"Circumstances of which a native of your fortunate land cannot, and therefore will not, I hope, judge," said a low sweet voice, in good but foreign English.
Lorraine turned to the speaker, and recognised his last night's companion. Their eyes met for a moment: in hers there was a singular mixture of timidity and decision, of appeal and yet dignity. She blushed deeply, but momentarily, and her features instantly settled into an expression, calm, almost cold; as if any betrayal of emotion were utterly at variance with long habits of self-control.
Edward had seen beauty often, and seen it with every possible aid; but never had he seen beauty so perfect, yet so utterly devoid of extraneous assistance. She wore a loose black stuff dress, up to the throat, and the folds simply gathered by a girdle round the waist; yet a more symmetrical figure never gave grace to silken robe. The swan-like neck nobly supported the finely shaped head, round which the hair was bound in the simplest manner. The features were of the first order: the high forehead, the oval of the face, the short, curved lip, gave the idea of a Grecian gem; and the clear pale olive, unbroken by colour—a melancholy, almost severe expression of thought, produced also the effect of the more spiritual and intellectual beauty of a statue rather than a picture. The eyes were peculiarly large, beautiful in form and colour; of that rare deep, soft black; thoughtful rather than animated; quiet, downcast, more than expressive; but it was not difficult to imagine, that, when their midnight depths were kindled, it would be the flashing of the lightning. There was something sad in seeing youth such a contrast to itself—a face whose beauty only was young.
With a bright changeful colour, a mouth whose smiles were in unison with the bright clear blue eyes, the mother almost seemed younger than the daughter. Donna Margaretta's dress though it was black, showed more of personal adornment. The material was a rich silk. The ends of the veil, drawn over her head, were embroidered with silver; she had long gold ear-rings; to a rich and large gold chain was suspended a cross set with precious stones; and over the arm of her chair hung a rosary of agate beads. Another contrast was, that, though Beatrice's little hands were as exquisitely shaped as her mother's, they had not the same delicate white which shows the hand has known no ruder contact than a silken thread, a lute-string, or a flower. Moreover, the contrast between her throat and face showed that Beatrice was somewhat sunburnt; while her mother's cheek was fair as one
"No wind has swept—no sun has kiss'd."
They drew round the breakfast-table, which was as neat as if it had been prepared in England. There was chocolate, new milk, honeycomb with its liquid amber droppings fragrant of a thousand flowers, a small loaf, and a little basket of green figs. Lorraine observed, that while the rest of the meal was served on the common earthenware of the country, Donna Margaretta's cup was of exquisitely painted china, and placed on a small silver stand wrought in filagree.
The meal passed cheerfully, even gaily. If Beatrice was silent, and seemingly anxious, her mother appeared to be even in high spirits. Delighted to see a countryman of her own, she asked a thousand questions. The sound of an English voice and English words carried her back to her childhood; and the birds and flowers she had then loved now rose upper most in her recollections. She often alluded to her husband—said he would soon be home—and repeatedly dwelt on the pleasure it would give him to see an Englishman.
Breakfast was scarcely finished before she rose, and asked Edward to accompany her to her garden. "It is just like an English one."
"It is very hot, dear mother—had you not better stay in the house?"
"There, now—when my garden is so cool. You will go, will you not?" said she, with an air of pretty childish entreaty to Edward. "We won't take you, Beatrice."
Beatrice rose, and, calling the old black servant, spoke to him in a low voice in Spanish. "Cæsar will direct you—and you will take care of my mother," she said to Lorraine, with rather more earnestness of manner than seemed necessary.
The old negro led the way, and, with a most ostentatious care, cleared the path, which wound very like a labyrinth, till it opened on a small space no one could have found without a guide. Entirely surrounded by ilex and oak trees, it was like an island of sunshine; the soft thick grass only broken by plots of many-coloured flowers. In the midst of each was a wooden stand, on which was a straw bee-hive—every one of those Cortez of the insect world were out upon their golden search, and the murmur of their wings was like an echo to the falling fountain in the midst. The basin had once been carved like a lotus-leaf; the edges were now rough and broken, but the water fell clear and sweet as ever.
His companion delightedly pointed out the flowers and the bees; and, whether it was the contagion of her gladness, the open air, or the sunshine, his spirits awoke from the depression of his morning melancholy. Her peculiarly sweet laugh rose like music; and he gradually began to draw a parallel between the mother and the daughter. In spite of the interest excited by Beatrice, the conclusion was in favour of the parent. "The one," thought he to himself, "is gloomy and desponding—rash, too—think of last night's adventure. Donna Margaretta, on the contrary, reconciles herself to the alteration of her fortunes by a gentle contentedness, engaging her mind and centering her wishes on healthful employment and innocent amusements, in the best spirit of feminine philosophy."
He walked round the garden with her, till they came to an immense ilex-tree at one end. It had its lower branches fashioned into a sort of bower, and a rude lattice-work supported the growth of several luxuriant creeping plants. There were two or three seats covered with matting; and on one of these, at the foot of the ilex, Donna Margaretta took her place. "It is not so pretty as our English gardens—have you a garden at home?" Edward was obliged to confess his inattention hitherto to horticultural pursuits. "I was much happier in England—now, don't you tell Beatrice, for she takes his part—but Don Henriquez is very unkind to leave me as he does. I have not seen him such a long while."
Confidential communications are usually embarrassing; and Edward began to think, "What shall I say?" His companion did not give him much time to consider, before she continued—"I have very little to remind me of England; but I have some of its flowers—I like them better than all the others:" and, putting a drooping bough aside, she showed some daisies, of which she gathered a few. At first she seemed as if about to give them to him, when suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and she passionately exclaimed, "Not these—I cannot give away these. They are English flowers—you will get plenty in your own country; you will go back there—I shall see England no more."
Edward, both surprised and touched, endeavoured to soothe her; she did not appear even to hear what he said. She let the flowers drop, and, clasping her knees with joined hands, rocked backwards and forwards, half singing, half repeating the words, "no more;" while the tears fell like a child's down her face, without an effort on her part to stop them. Gradually the sounds became inarticulate, the heavy glittering lash rested on the cheek, her head made a natural pillow of the ilex' trunk, and Lorraine saw evidently that she was sleeping. To withdraw as quietly as possible seemed his best plan; when the entrance of Beatrice induced him to hesitate.
Signing to him for silence, she bent over her mother for a moment, drew a branch closer to exclude the sun from her face; and, with a step so light that even to Lorraine's ear it was inaudible, she left the arbour, beckoning him to follow. "I feared this," said she, her dark eyes filling with tears, whose softness was but momentary, so instantly were they checked. "My poor mother!—God forbid you should ever know what she has suffered!—Think what must have been the wretchedness that has left her a child in mind."
The truth flashed on Edward. Desolate then, indeed, was the situation of the young creature before him. It is very difficult to express sympathy to one who evidently shrinks from such expression. They walked on in silence till they came to where the negro was at work.
"I cannot leave my mother; when she wakes, she would be so alarmed to find herself alone, and her sleep is as transient as it is uncertain; but the country round is well worth a stranger's attention, and Cæsar is an excellent guide as to roads. The picturesque I must leave to yourself. I shall hope at dinner to hear you say that our valley is as beautiful as we ourselves think it."
Edward asked a few topographical questions, and set forth without the old man, who seemed infinitely to prefer finishing his attendance on his carnations.
The finest prospect would have been thrown away on our young traveller: all he wished was solitude and his own thoughts. A nook was soon found; he threw himself on the soft grass beneath a large myrtle-tree, and pondered over the events of the last four-and-twenty hours; at the same time, after an approved English fashion, picking off the leaves from every bough within his reach. One reflection made him strip a poor branch very quickly—it was the thought that, under all circumstances, he ought not to remain at Don Henriquez's house. Still, his family were evidently so situated that a friend might be of use. What could have induced Beatrice to assume a disguise so foreign to what seemed her feelings and manners? If he could find out the difficulty, might he not offer assistance? Desolate and deserted as both she and her unfortunate mother appeared to be, every kind and good sentiment prompted an effort to serve them. The result of his deliberations was, to stay a little while, at all events. He might convince them of his sincere wish to render any aid in his power. Advice alone to one so friendless as Beatrice might be invaluable. So picking the last leaf of myrtle he could reach, he determined to remain. Inclination never wants an excuse—and, if one won't do, there are a dozen others soon found.