Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 62
CHAPTER XVI.
"Sad and deep
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast."
Mrs. Hemans.
"Many a pang of lingering tenderness,
And many a shuddering conscience fit."
Montgomery's Pelican Island.
Arundel House was scarcely a day's journey from the sea port where they disembarked; and the voyagers easily yielded to Emily's entreaties that they would, for the present, take up their abode with her.
"How very beautiful!" exclaimed Beatrice, as, at the end they wound through the shadowy lane so peculiarly English. Truly, as the old proverb says,
"March winds and April showers
Had brought forth May flowers."
The first flush of the hawthorn blossom had given place to the luxuriant vegetation of the green leaves, amid which the red shoots of the wild honey-suckle twined, and from which hung a profusion of its fragrant tubes, like fairy trumpets. The dog-rose was decked with its delicate bloom, and a hundred frail but most fair roses contrasted the darker hedge. High above stood the ash-tree, its boughs covered with the toy-like bunches called "locks and keys;" and beyond spread the meadows, knee-deep with the verdant grass. At one turning in the road, the air became suddenly fragrant: the dew of the evening was falling on a portion of the fence entirely composed of briar, whose leaves are sweeter than the flowers of other plants.
The shadows fell long and dark from the antique house, as they entered the court-yard; and an old man, candle in hand, querulously asserted "that the young mistress was abroad."
Emily had, partly from fatigue, partly from thought—such thought as never yet sought language—been leaning back in the carriage; while Don Henriquez and his daughter conversed in whispers. She now roused herself; and, looking from the open door of the chaise, said to an elderly woman, who had come forward, apparently to countenance her husband's denial, "Have you forgotten me, Mary?"
"God bless her sweet face, it is herself!"
"Our young mistress come home!"
Little explanation was needed. The ancient servants were, with the usual effect of pleasurable surprise, quite bewildered. With a strong effort, Emily conquered whatever feelings might be struggling within; and, bidding her guests welcome, took Beatrice's arm, and led her after the old housekeeper, who mingled her exclamations of delight at seeing "Miss Emily again," with lamentations at having been taken "all unaware:" turning with an apologetic tone to Beatrice, to whom, as the stranger, she deemed some explanation due for the honour of the house. "The room does look mighty bare and cold; but you see, Ma'am, the curtains are taken down, and the chairs covered up: to-morrow you sha'n't know the place."
They entered the room, and the lights fell full on Emily's face. "Oh, Miss Emily!" ejaculated the poor faithful creature, who now saw the alteration a few months had produced.
A glance from Beatrice—for nothing is so electric as the kindness of sympathy—stopped the tide of bewailings that were gushing forth. "Poor child!" muttered the housekeeper; "but it's no good telling her."
"You must let me help you to nurse Miss Emily," said Beatrice: "I must resign my office by degrees; but being at home will do wonders for her."
"Nay," said Emily, smiling, "I shall want very little nursing now—I feel so well this evening."
Even sorrow for "the dear child" gave way before the "hospitable cares" on which the housekeeper was "intent." A bright fire blazed in the grate, the arm-chairs were wheeled round, a white cloth laid on the table—rather sooner than was necessary, but the delight of the old domestic's heart was the damask. Supper was brought in with apologies, thick and threefold as those that arrive on the morning of a ball when the hostess has been experimental in her invitations.
"If I had but known, Miss Emily, you were coming—but, luckily, we killed a pig yesterday. But, dear, dear, you didn't use to eat pork; and I'm sure I know nothing of your foreign fashions. You'll be starved, all of you."
The supper, however, was not so despicable, especially to travellers. A chicken had been broiled with mushrooms—mushrooms which had that very morning had the dew upon them; pork-chops, the smallest of the small, and the whitest of the white; some broiled ham, and peas which Adrian had been out with the lantern to gather; also a cucumber, the freshest and most fragrant of salads; preserved apricots, like frosted amber; a basket of early strawberries and cream—Norway itself, that paradise of cows, could scarce boast thicker or whiter. Add to this, Madeira which had twice ripened beneath eastern suns—once in the grape, and once in the wood; and Port whose filmy robe of cobweb had, as old Adrian boasted, outlasted many a silken dress. Now, remembering that what was hot of this supper was very hot indeed, and what was cold, cold as possible, it must be owned that travellers have fared worse.
Don Henriquez was deeply impressed in favour of the English nation; but Beatrice was chiefly rejoiced to see how much being at the home for which she had so pined seemed to revive Emily. She had all day complained of severe and wearing pain; she now seemed not only at ease, but even comparatively strong. The Spaniard thought of her companion's more happy and settled fate; rich, in her own land, near friends the next day would bring to her side—at home in the house of her ancestors. "Ah, Emily, you ought to be—you will be happy," was her silent reflection.
Emily not only felt that joyousness of spirits which is produced by relief from pain, but was anxious, by every exertion, to convince her guests of their welcome. It was the fatigue of her companions that first gave the signal for leaving the table. She leant on her old favourite up stairs—"I could carry you, Miss Emily, in my arms."
Beatrice could not resist an exclamation of delight at the comfort of an English bed-room—the fire made it look so cheerful; for though the days were warm and bright, the nights required fire.
"To-morrow is my birth-day," said Emily; "how thankful I am to spend it at home! Mary, be sure you send word to Mr. Morton to breakfast here."
"But, Emily dear, you will tire yourself. If we mean," said Beatrice to the housekeeper, "to nurse her, we must oblige her to obey us: let us see, now, if both together have authority enough to make her silent and sleepy."
In a few minutes more the old woman was dismissed; but Beatrice was the first asleep. Restless, weary, fearful of disturbing her companion, Emily found on her pillow only the weariness of unrest. She grew feverish and impatient; at last, having ascertained, by leaning over her, that Beatrice was sleeping, she arose, and, wrapping her cloak around her, softly undrew the curtain. A gleam of light from the lamp fell full on Beatrice's face, and Emily hastily turned round to ascertain that she still slept. The hurried glance became a prolonged gaze, as she marked the perfect beauty of the face before her. The marble clearness of the skin was warmed with a rich crimson flush; the parted lips were like chiselled coral, and wore a sweet smile, as if their thoughts were pleasant. The long curled eye-lash rested on the cheek; and along the throat, where the blue veins, clear and azure, were filled with life, was a slight hair chain. Emily had often seen it—it was wrought by the sleeper's self, and to it hung the little watch given her by Edward Lorraine, beating quietly as the heart beneath it. It was a moment's impulse that made Emily, as she entered the dressing-room, hold the lamp to the glass. Earnestly she gazed on her own face—thin, pale,—eye and cheek had equally lost their lustre; her strange and haggard look startled even herself.
"I never was so beautiful as she is—and now"
A feeling of hatred towards the young Spaniard entered her heart, and she sunk back on the sofa, while her breath came thick with the hurry of evil thoughts.
"I wish I had staid in the convent, so that she had staid with me. I might have turned her thoughts against him—told her he was cruel, false. Even now they might be parted." And Emily wished in her heart that the beautiful sleeper might never wake again. It is well for our weak and wicked race that our unrighteous wishes lack the temptation of power. Who dare look into the secret recesses of their soul, and number their crimes of thought? But Emily was too kind, too generous, to allow her bad nature more than a moment's sway. The shadow of the demon passed over her, but rested not.
"My God, have pity and mercy on me! I dare not think my own thoughts. I—I, who love him so! how could I even think of happiness bought by his sorrow? And Beatrice, who has been to me even as a sister—a watchful and affectionate sister!"
The tears filled her eyes, and soon fell thick and fast; they came with all the gentleness of rain, and her softened mood brought almost happiness with it. The imagination for a while drew the future as with the wand of a fairy; but it was the future of others—though a future that owed much to her affection. Suddenly she rose from her seat, and, drawing a little table to the fire, began writing eagerly. Her hand trembled, and the damp stood on her brow in large drops with the exertion; and before her task was finished, her heart beat aloud. At length two papers were completed: one she folded and put in her desk—"I only ask till to-morrow:"—the other she tried to seal, but in vain—her strength was utterly exhausted. Her head swam with a strange and heavy pain—she dropped her face upon her hands to still the throbbing pulses—she gasped for breath—and on raising her face, her hands were covered with blood: it gave her, however, a temporary relief; but she felt too faint to move, and sunk back on the sofa. A light step entered the room—it was Beatrice.
"Oh, Emily, why did you not wake me?"
"Nay, I have not wanted you till now;" and throwing her arm round her companion's neck, she kissed her: it was a silent renewal of affection, as if she mutely asked her forgiveness for having envied her happiness. She was soon asleep; and Beatrice, now fully awakened by anxiety, watched over her unquiet slumbers as you would watch a feverish child. Once Emily started up—"Is my letter gone to Lady Mandeville?" But on Beatrice's assurance that it should be sent the first thing in the morning, she dropped her head back on the pillow and slumbered again.
The sunshine of summer, and the showers of spring, brought in the next day. White clouds wandered over the sky, like the uncertain aims of the weak and vain—and like them, too, often ending in darkness and tears. The wind stirred the leaves of the old trees with a sound like falling rain—a melancholy voice that suited well with their gloomy shade. But in the garden was life in all its glad and bright hues: the early roses and the late violets opened their urns, exhaling in perfume the drops they caught, till every breath was pleasure; the laburnums, those prodigals of fleeting wealth, were covered with gold; and the Persian lilacs waved graceful as the Circassian maidens, to whom they are so often compared in eastern song. Emily resisted all entreaties to remain in bed; and the party had finished breakfast before Mr. Morton arrived. The coldness and severity of his air vanished as he gazed on Emily, who, after a moment's embarrassment, requested Don Henriquez and his daughter to take Adrian as a guide round the grounds.
They wandered for some time through the garden; at length they repassed the window. Emily was rising from her knee, and Mr. Morton's hand rested on her head, even as a father would bless his child. They caught sight of Beatrice, and beckoned her to come in. Mr. Morton passed her hurriedly in the hall, and she saw he was struggling to subdue a burst of bitter emotion. The trace of tears was on Emily's cheek; but she was quiet, composed, and less feverish. A moment after, Mr. Morton re-entered. But all parties conversed by an effort. Beatrice was anxiously watching Emily's extreme exhaustion. Don Henriquez, having nothing else to do—and an English house, moreover, recalling many early recollections—thought he could not take a better opportunity of being unhappy about the loss of his wife, whom, to speak truth, he had never had time to regret properly. Mr. Morton had ample matter for reflection in the altered looks of his early favourite; and the little attention Emily's increasing languor enabled her to bestow on any thing, was given to watching the hands move round the face of Beatrice's watch.
God of heaven! to think what every segment of that small space involves!—how much of human happiness and misery—of breath entering into our frail tenement of mortality, and making life—or departing from it, and making death—are in such brief portions of eternity! How much is there in one minute, when we reflect that that one minute extends over the world!