Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 64
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Memories of boyhood! how crowded and thronged are thy images—how pleasant, how painful! What has become of the companions of our studies, our sports, of our rivalries and reconciliations, of our sudden quarrels and more steady friendships? How remain the haunts of those early days? by what footsteps, and with what feelings are they trodden? The wood with its wild cherries—are the trees still there to tempt the adventurous climber?***Who now lives in the moment, and dreams, if ever dream come, of futurity, as of a vision of glorious enterprise and assured reward?"—W. Jerdan.
It was a broken but beautiful sky—one on which to look was to imagine. The eye could scarcely dwell on the mingling light and darkness, the infinite variety of shadows, that came down from heaven to cast their deeper semblance on earth, without conjuring up in the mind those analogies by which humanity loves to link itself with inanimate nature. There were those bright gleams which have so often been likened unto hope—those depths which have been so happily compared to futurity—those changes to which the heart says, "Such are mine own." The stars came out, few and scattered, and from the far parts of the sky. We hold not now the belief of old: we know that in their mystic characters nought of our destiny is written. Philosophy has taught a lowly lesson to our pride; and no longer do we single out some bright and lovely planet, and ask of it our fate; till, from asking, we almost hope that Night will send on her winds some answer, whose words are from the mystic scroll of our destiny.
Foolishness of mortality! to deem that the glorious and the lofty star, which looked not on us who watch its beauty, should have been placed in that mighty firmament to shed its radiance on our birth, and chronicle in its bright page our sin, our suffering, and our sorrow!—and when have not these three words told the story of our life? And yet this linking that vain life to the lofty and the lovely,—what is it but one of the many signs of the spirit within us—that which day crushes, but kills not—that spirit which looks into space with the eyes of longing, which spurns the course it treads, and says to earth, "Thou art my dwelling, but not my home?"
Night is beautiful in itself, but still more beautiful in its associations: it is not linked, as day is, with our cares and our toils, the business and the littleness of life. The sunshine brings with it its action: we rise in the morning, and our task is before us; but night comes, and with it rest. If we leave sleep, and ask not of dreams forgetfulness, our waking is in solitude, and our employment is thought. Imagination has thrown her glory around the midnight—the orbs of heaven, the silence, the shadows, are steeped in poetry. Even in the heart of a crowded city, where the moonlight fell but upon pavement and roof, the heart would be softened, and the mind elevated, amid the loneliness of night's deepest and stillest hours;—in the country the effect is still more impressive. We accustom ourselves to look upon the country as more pure, more free, more happy, than the town; and it is from the wood and the field, the hill and the valley, that poetry takes that imagery which so imperceptibly mingles with all our excited moods.
The road, which wound rather round a hill than up it, was high and steep. On one side was a thick hedge, which shut out all from the horseman's view; but the other was bounded by a paling. Beyond it lay the sweep of a park, whose green was touched as if with snow by the moonlight, which grew clearer and lighter every moment, as the thick clouds broke away. The silvery light, which at first only played on their ridges, gradually extended its dominion, like Persuasion to Pity, softening the dark heart of Anger. The black masses melted into soft, white clouds, which went floating over air as if they rejoiced in their change.
The park was dotted with trees, all single, and of an immense size; and the wind just stirred their leaves with a soft sound, like the falling of summer rain. There is something melancholy in most natural sounds—the murmur of the sea—the dropping of water—the many voices of the wind, from that which only scatters a rose, to that which levels mast and flag with the wave; but Nature has no sound more melancholy than that rainy tone among the leaves: you listen, and then look, as if the shower were descending; but your extended hand catches not the drops, and the bough which is blown against your face leaves no trace of moisture behind.
We live in an age of fact, not fiction;—for every effect is assigned some simple and natural cause;—we dream no dreams of spiritual visitings; and omens are fast sinking into the disbelief of oracles: else what a mystical language is that of the leaves! No marvel that in the days of old, when Imagination walked the world as its own domain, every ancient trunk had
"One fair spirit for its minister."
The hamadryades have gone, like the golden fancies of which they were engendered—morning dreams of a young world scarce awake, but full of freshness and beauty. Yet often will the thought, or rather the fancy, come across me, that this wailing but most musical noise—heard in the dim evening, when every tree has a separate sound like a separate instrument, and every leaf a differing tone like the differing notes—is the piteous lament of some nymph pent within the gray and mossy trunk whence she may never more emerge in visible loveliness.
Edward—for he was the rider—now turned from the road, and entered the park by a small gate, which, however, opened on no actual road; but he was familiar with every old tree and grassy knoll within that wide domain. Childhood, more than any other period, links its remembrance with inanimate objects, perhaps because its chief pleasures are derived from them. The hillock whose top was left with a flying step—the oak, to scale whose leafy fortress had in it something of that sense of danger and exertion in which even the earliest age delights—the broad sheet of water, whose smooth surface has been so often skimmed and broken by the round pebble, to whose impetus the young arm lent its utmost vigour—how deeply are these things graven upon the memory! The great reason why the pleasures of childhood are so much more felt in their satisfaction, is, that they suffice unto themselves. The race is run without an eye to a prize;—the oak is climbed without reference to aught that will reward the search;—the stone is flung upon the waters, but not in the hope that, ere many days, it will be found again. The simple exertion is its own exceeding great reward. Hope destroys pleasure;*[1] and as life darkens around us, the eye is in perpetual weariness, and the heart in continual fever, with gazing beyond the present into its results.
Edward had now entered a grass avenue, over which the limes interlaced their yellow blossoms, pale in the moonlight, while their faint odour filled the air. How many kindly and affectionate thoughts thronged Lorraine's memory, as he rode slowly onwards! Shutting out the hot sun in summer, and the cold wind in winter, and lying apart from any of the more direct roads that crossed the park, this avenue had been a very favourite resort with himself and his brother. The hours that in other days had been here passed away! How many discourses of Algernon's freshened on his memory!—discourses on which his rich but melancholy imagination wasted its strength. Then he recalled the affectionate interest with which Algernon ever entered into his plans—how he had encouraged him with prediction, and shared with him in hope. "And how little," thought Edward, bitterly and sadly, "how little has sufficed to put discord and division between us! A weary and evil experience is that of life! But I ought to blame myself—I was unkind and impatient. We shall be the better friends for the future." And he put spurs to his horse, in the eagerness of reconciliation.
He were no true lover who could ride the greensward by moonlight without thinking of her "the gentle lady of his heart;" and from thinking how affectionately Algernon would listen to the history of his love, and Beatrice's infinite perfections, he very naturally soon thought of those perfections only. However, he was roused from this reverie by suddenly entering the drive which led direct to the house. Here was sufficient indication that he was not the only visitor expected that night.
Lamp after lamp flashed through the thick branches of the old chestnut avenue, as the various carriages drove rapidly through the park.
"I can scarcely imagine 'a gay scene,' as the Morning Post would call it, at the old castle. 'Oh Change, thy name is Woman!' Nothing but a ball could have called forth such roses and ringlets as I have seen glancing through every window," said Edward Lorraine.
"A signal to his squire he flung,
Who instant to his stirrup sprung;"
or, in less picturesque language, he beckoned to his groom, and asked him whether he had heard of any fête at the inn.
"My lady gives a fancy ball to-night," replied the man; and in immediate confirmation, a carriage rolled past somewhat heavily; for it was large and loaded, and through its windows were seen a turban, a straw hat, and a glare of mingled colours, which showed the wearers had been left to their own devices.
"I shall make my way to Algernon's study. It will be quiet there, at all events; and I can easily let him know of my arrival."
So saying, or rather thinking, he followed the winding path which led through the little shrubbery, every branch of which was loaded with blossoms. The pink May shook its fairy favours over him, the lilac covered him with a sweet and starry shower, and the red-rose leaves fell to the ground like rain as he passed. The sounds of music came upon the wind—first a soft indistinct murmur, then the notes more distinct, and Edward recognised a favourite waltz, though as yet the branches closing thickly overhead prevented his seeing the castle. Many sweet instruments were blended in that gay Italian air—and yet at this moment it displeased the listener. The windows gleamed with light through the boughs—a small open space gave to view the left wing of the building—he could distinctly see the long range of illuminated apartments, figures moving to and fro, and the richly coloured fall of the draperies.
The path widened, and Edward hastily crossed the lawn to the room which he sought. There was light within, but the shutters were closed. "I must enter by the passage door." This had been left unfastened, and in another moment Edward was in the study—but it had been fitted up as a supper-room. That "haunted chamber," vowed to the sad recollections of the loved and the departed—made sacred by the tenderest memories of sorrow and remorse—a temple of the imagination—thus to be desecrated by the very coarsest part of festivity—the solemn turned to the ludicrous! There the last and loveliest likeness of the passionate and the beautiful—the dead Francisca—hung directly above white soup and white wine, blancmange and jelly. Truly, sorrow hath no more substance than a sandwich. How curious it is, too, that the regrets which spring from sentiment grow absurd when the least out of keeping with circumstance! Affections are as passing as the worthless life they redeem; and the attempt to give them memory, when their existence is no more, has often more of laughter in it than of tears.
Edward remembered all the melancholy associations which had so long been connected with the room. Well, there were now the supper-tables spread; and all the advantage of his quiet entrance was, that he was at first taken for a thief, attracted by the charms of silver forks and spoons. Most of the servants were new, and this slight circumstance was a vexation. In an old house we look for old servants. Edward thought the change must have been a bitter as well as a sudden one, that had thus dismissed service made grateful by long habit. However, one or two knew him personally; and with some difficulty he had a message sent to his brother—an unsuccessful one though, for the Earl was not to be found. "I dare-say," said a domestic carelessly, as if the subject were of very inferior interest to some sweet-meats which were being arranged,—"I dare-say he is in the green room in the south turret; my lord is so odd, he would sooner sit poking by himself than"
What species of enjoyment was to form the comparison, Edward did not wait to hear; for, hastily taking up a lamp, he hurried towards the south turret. He knew it well; as a boy, it had been considered as his own domain. Perhaps something of affectionate recollection might have instigated Algernon's choice; but Edward only thought of one passage in the last letter: "Daily I give up points very dear to me, because the pain of insisting is greater than the pain of refusing; and I speak now of mere bodily weakness."
To reach the turret, it was necessary to cross a gallery filled with musicians and servants, looking eagerly down on the festivity below. It commanded a view of the whole hall; and Edward for a moment leant over the balustrade. At first all was a bright and gay confusion—colours only seemed to strike the eye—gradually the figures stood out distinctly, and Lorraine could distinguish every face except the one which he especially wanted. Yet his eye involuntarily lingered on the scene; for he had caught sight of the Countess, who was standing in the centre of a little group, whose looks told their language was flattery; and she herself wore that bright excited air which the words of the flatterer, even more than those of the lover, can call up in woman's face. Every act a coquetry, every look a captivation, she just realised one of the brilliant beauties of La Fronde, a Duchesse de Longueville, for whose sake Rochefoucauld made love, war, and epigrams, and to whom he addressed his celebrated lines,
"Pour mériter son cœur, pour plaire à ses beaux yeux,
J'ai fait la guerre aux rois, je l'aurois faite aux dieux."
She wore a dress of azure blue velvet, with a deep border of gold; her luxuriant hair was put back from her brow in a style which no face but the most perfect could have borne, and was then gathered in a form like that of an ancient helmet, every plait glittering with diamonds: it was peculiar, but it suited her. "What," thought Edward, "the poet says in praise of one beauty, I say in dispraise of another:
'Her eyes, like suns, the rash beholder strike,
But, like the sun, they shine on all alike.'
This is very well for indifference, but very bad for vanity. I trust (and the lover smiled in scornfulness at the very idea) my Beatrice will be more exclusive of her smile." And with this wish, which with him took the shape of conviction, Edward turned into the gallery which led to the turret.
It was a narrow, gloomy passage, hung with very old tapestry. How strange did the fantastic and discoloured shapes appear by the dim light of the single lamp! At first the sounds of music seemed like a connexion with the gay and the bright left behind—soon the tones became confused—and before Edward had threaded two-thirds of the many turnings, the music was quite inaudible.
One large room only remained to cross: it had in former days been a picture gallery, but now, being apart from the other suite of apartments, it was never used. The furniture was old and faded, and a few worthless paintings mouldered on the walls. Among them was one which, in Edward's estimation, deserved a better place. It was the portrait of himself and his brother, taken years ago, when Algernon was a fine handsome boy, of about thirteen years of age, and Edward not quite three. The younger, a frank, bold, bright-eyed child, was mounted on a large Newfoundland dog, whose impatience the elder brother was trying to soothe. This was another proof how little Algernon's affections or recollections were considered by the Countess Adelaide.
Lorraine was now at the foot of the winding staircase which led to the turret, and he could not but recall his brother's luxurious habits, as he ascended the steep and narrow steps. At last he entered the chamber, and his first look was caught by its comfortless and unfurnished aspect. There was a little table, on which stood a common inkstand, some scattered papers, and a candle which had burnt down in the socket; but the room was illumined by the moonlight, which streamed in from the uncurtained window. Lord Etheringhame was seated with his back to the door, so that his visitor entered unobserved. "My dear Algernon, how comes it that I find you here, and alone?" There was no answer. With a vague feeling of alarm, rather than positive fear, Edward sprang to his brother. The lamp fell full upon his face—there was no mistaking its awful likeness. The features were drawn frightfully aside, and the open eyes looked out with that stony stare which says light has forsaken them for ever. Edward caught his hands, but they were death-cold. Algernon had been dead some hours. "God of heaven! my brother dead—and our parting was in anger!"
- ↑ * This remark having been questioned by one to whose judgment I exceedingly defer, may I be permitted not to retract, but to defend my assertion? Hope is like constancy, the country, or solitude—all of which owe their reputation to the pretty things that have been said about them. Hope is but the poetical name for that feverish restlessness which hurries over to-day for the sake of to-morrow. Who among us pauses upon the actual moment, to own, "Now, even now, am I happy?" The wisest of men has said, that hope deferred is sickness to the heart: yet what hope have we that is not deferred? For my part, I believe that there are two spirits who preside over this feeling, and that hope, like love, has its Eros and Anteros. Its Eros, that reposes on fancy, and creates rather than calculates; while its Anteros lives on expectation, and is dissatisfied with all that is, in vague longings for what may be.