# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 44

CHAPTER XX.
"Sa femme ne manquera pas d'adresse pour le faire revenir de sa première résolution, et l'obliger à faire sa volonté avant qu'il s'en doute. Un tel triomphe est le chef-d'œuvre d'une femme."
Les Sympathies; ou, l'Art de juger par les Traits du Visage des Convenances en Amour et en Amitié.
The room was panelled with Italian landscape—the vineyard hung its trellised wreath as it does in pictures and plays—a river,
Like a fairy thing,
Which the eye watches in its wandering,
wound through one department; a temple, whose graceful arch, and one or two columns yet entire, told how beautiful the shrine must have been ere its pillars were broken and its divinity departed, occupied a second; while a fair city, its spires sunny in the distance, gave variety to another; a scroll of oak leaves, in gold, marked the divisions—and another oaken ​wreath fastened back the blue satin folds of the windows, which opened upon a conservatory filled with the rarest exotics—and a small marble fountain in the midst showered its musical and diamond rain over the rich cactuses around—those gems of the world of flowers, as if their native soil had dyed their leaves with the glorious colours which wait impatiently for daylight in its mines: one, more than all, seemed the very flower of a fairy tale—a huge green snake, with a head of flame—a serpent king, with its crown of rubies—its red hues coloured like fire the water below.
Around the room was scattered all that makes luxury forgotten in taste: the little French clock, where a golden Cupid sat swinging, and the lapse of time is only told by music—the beautiful Annuals, those Assyrians of literature, "gleaming in purple and gold," and opened at some lovely scene or lovelier face—the cut-crystal glass, with one rose bending over the side—the alabaster vases carved as in snow—glittering toys, and china coloured with the rainbow, and diminutive enough to be Oberon's offering to his fairy queen—a fan, whose soft pink feathers cast their own delicate shade on the face reflected in the miniature mirror set ​in their centre—a large cashmere shawl, with its border of roses, thrown carelessly on a chair—a crimson cushion, where lay sleeping a Blenheim dog, almost small enough to have passed through the royal ring in that most fairy tale of the White Cat:—all bespoke a lady's room. Looking the very being for the atmosphere of palaces, sat its beautiful mistress by the small breakfast-table, and with a smile that did not always of a morning grace her exquisite face—and yet she was only tête-à-tête with her husband—which smile, however, would have been easily understood by any one who had heard the conversation between Lady Lauriston and her daughter the night before. It ended with, "as if Algernon could refuse me any thing. His brother's influence greater than mine! You shall see, mamma. He wants so much to go back to that stupid old Castle, that one word of our leaving town, and I may make my own conditions."
"Be cautious, my dear love! Men do not like to be interfered with, even by a wife, in politics!"
"Politics! as if it were to me other than matter of affection. It is all for the sake of our dear Alfred."
​ "Ah, Adelaide, what talents you have!"
Our principal actions are the result of our smallest motives. Now Lady Etheringhame had divers minute influences of dislike towards Lorraine. First, he had not been sufficiently miserable at her marriage with another; secondly, he had not courted her since; and third, last, and worst, she saw that Edward thoroughly appreciated the motives and manoeuvres of her marriage; in short, no food could possibly be extracted from him for her insatiable vanity.
The death of Mr. Eskville had left the seat of the borough of A. at Lord Etheringhame's disposal; and it had been long understood that the said seat was, immediately on its becoming vacant, to be filled by Lorraine; but Lady Lauriston thought it a pity her son should miss such an opportunity of getting into Parliament. The plan was suggested to Adelaide, and, as we have seen, met with her ready concurrence; with her first cup of coffee, therefore, she commenced operations.
"I must shew you, Algernon, a new purchase of mine"- -so saying she drew towards them a small table, in the middle of which was set a china plate, or rather picture—"I bought it ​for that drooping tree in the midst: it is so like one in the park."
"Ah, Adelaide, I duly admire the painting; but how much more beautiful the reality!"
"Now, don't you grow quite angry in your defence of rural innocence. It is my misfortune, not my fault, that the felicity of the country is, to my mind, like the merriment of Christmas, more heard of than seen."
"But, Adelaide, the death of Mr. Eskville makes it absolutely necessary that I, at least, should go to the Castle."
"Nay, that is presuming on my good nature. Trust you at Etheringhame without me! No, no, that old chestnut avenue is too dangerous a rival!"
"If you would but go with me!"
"If you would but stay with me!"
"But every body has left town. Why, autumn will be here soon."
"We can spend a delightful one at Brighton."
"But, Adelaide, I must see about this vacant borough. I must keep up my interest."
"O that tiresome borough! There, mamma kept me up last night talking about its divers advantages. It is well you named it, for I had ​utterly forgotten that I had faithfully promised her to ask you to give it to Alfred. I need not tell you that I assured her you would."
"My dearest Adelaide, you promised what is utterly out of my power."
"Oh, you wish to make a favour of it, do you? Well, I will beg so prettily"—and joining her beautiful hands, and laying them on his arm—"Pray do; I have quite set my heart upon it."
"But the borough is as good as Edward's; it has always been considered his."
"Yes—I do not doubt it—he will rule you in that as in every thing else. If I had known my wishes were in opposition to Mr. Lorraine's, I should have known it was in vain to express them."
"My dearest Adelaide, how can you say so?"
"You know it is the truth—that every body laughs at the absurd authority your brother has over you. Much as it has mortified me, I should never have mentioned the subject; but to find myself so completely a cipher when opposed to him, I must own I do feel it."
"But, Adelaide, this is my brother's great step in public life: a borough—"
"Excuse my interruption; but it must make ​much difference to him, when you know Mr. Delawarr could and would bring him into Parliament any day."
"I believe you are right in that: still, he would prefer coming in on the family interest."
"So, for a mere preference, you will disappoint poor Merton of his only chance, and refuse my earnest petition?"
"Well, my love, I will ask Edward about it."
"So you will not venture to act till you have first asked leave! Now—for shame—do be yourself! I will not have you so idle! Do show Mr. Lorraine you are not quite the passive tool in his hands he takes you to be."
"But, my dear Adelaide"—
"Ah, there is Lorraine's phaeton at the door! I wonder is it to this tiresome borough you owe such an early visit? Well, love, we shall tell him you intend nominating Merton."
Edward was in the room before an answer could be made: the little Blenheim waked at his step, and jumped up to caress him. I would sooner take a dog or a child's judgment of a person's nature than that of a grand jury. Lord Etheringhame cast a deprecating look at his wife, as their visitor stooped down to caress the dog; but Adelaide was too diplomatic to ​lose that only irreparable loss—present opportunity.
"We are arranging our return to the Castle: may we hope to number you among our visitors?"
Algernon—O the pleasantness of self-deception!—immediately hoping that this was a tacit renunciation of her project, added his entreaties—Lorraine accepted. Alas! he took the borough so much for granted, that he never even thought about it; and the conversation for the next half hour turned on in different topics. Just as he was departing, Lady Etheringhame said:—
"We are not quite disinterested in hoping you will come to Etheringhame: we want you to help us to canvass. Algernon has promised to do all he can to bring in my brother for Avondale."
Edward turned to Lord Etheringhame, and read in his overpowering confusion confirmation. To hold our surprises in perfect subjection is one of the first lessons of society; and he now, with those helpful auxiliaries, pride and anger, controlled his to perfection.
"So Lord Merton is to be our family representative!" (though society controls the ​expression of surprise, it gives full licence to that of contempt.) "I really must call on Lady Lauriston to congratulate her on the attainment of her object. Many failures only increase the satisfaction of final success."
Lady Etheringhame glanced at Lorraine, half in anger, half in defiance, as she replied:—
"Nay, Merton must thank me. It would have been hard if Algernon had denied my first request," turning to her husband with such a very sweet smile.
Edward now rose from his seat, but paused for a moment, so that he completely fronted his brother. Perhaps never face was more completely made to express energetic disdain than his own: the finely moulded brow, slightly but sternly knit—the mouth, so scornful in its curve—the dark eyes filled with that flashing and overpowering light which is from the kindled thought and feeling within—the pale cheek, which we so unconsciously associate with the idea of intellect,—all gave full force to his parting words.
"While congratulating, I must not forget to congratulate you, Algernon, on thus carrying your principles into action. I know how deeply you are impressed with the responsibility of ​him who possesses the power of sending the representatives of his country to Parliament. Lord Merton is equally calculated to understand and support its interests, whether we consider his habits or his talents. I congratulate you on your clever and high-principled representative;"—and Lorraine left the room, in the comfortable conviction of having crowded as much annoyance as could be well comprised in a parting speech: and considering that, only the day before, Lord Etheringhame had expressed his wonder to Edward, whether Merton was most fool or brute, and intimated no little disgust at his dissipation, so unredeemed by aught of refinement—his selfishness, so undisguised by even the thin veil of common courtesy—his utter want of information—his stupidity—and also that, in the course of conversation, with that flattery by which a weak mind seeks to ingratiate itself, he had been most theoretically eloquent upon the principles and talents requisite in a member of the House, to which is intrusted the destinies of the country; and all which, at the time, he meant his brother should apply to himself. Considering all this, it may be imagined that Lord Etheringhame's reflections were more true ​than agreeable. He was roused from his reverie by Adelaide exclaiming:
"I am sure you have had no trouble about the matter. Could any thing have been more satisfactorily arranged?"
Algernon did not agree with her in his own mind: nevertheless, he said nothing. It was less troublesome to think than to speak; and his indolent indulgence was now more than a habit.
Ordering his horses in an hour to be at Mr. Delawarr's door, Edward walked thither, too excited for solitude, and impatient for a listener to whom he could express his indignation, and who would join in his contempt. He knew Merton's ignorance, but he also knew his vanity; he would be sure to speak; he asked no better revenge than a reply—and arrayed in his own mind a whole battalion of arguments, and a light-armed troop of sneers. "Nothing is more imaginative than anger," thought he, as, arriving at Mr. Delawarr's house, he laughed to himself at the ideal eloquence in which he had been indulging. A carriage was at the door; and as he crossed the hall, he saw—and though they say seeing is believing, it was an evidence he felt inclined to doubt—Mr ​Rainscourt coming from the library, and also bowed out in the most cordial manner by Mr. Delawarr himself.
Mr. Rainscourt, the head of the party most decidedly opposed to his, with whom on catholic questions, corn bills, free trade, reform—those divers points in the debatable land of our British constitution—he had not an opinion in common; political enemies (and no enmity is so bitter as a political one) from their youth upwards, between whom there had been war "even to the knife,"—who had fought a duel (and even that had failed to reconcile them); what was there in common to them now?
Surprises are like misfortunes or herrings—they rarely come single. Edward entered the library; and even Mr. Rainscourt's appearance was forgotten, in the relief of an attentive listener to an angry detail of his disappointment. The interest Mr. Delawarr took in his words was evident enough to have satisfied the most fastidious: still, though the dark brow was sedulously knit, and the pale lip compressed, Lorraine thought he read a passing gleam of exultation—an expression which, though instantly subdued, betrayed that Mr. ​Delawarr was pleased, not vexed, by the occurrence. The narrative ended by Edward's saying, "My vexation for my brother is a thousand times greater than my vexation for myself. If he had acted on the belief, that
'Sparta has many a worthier son than me,'
I should myself have been the first to approve his conduct. But to see Merton, whom he both dislikes and despises, in my place—and that merely from irresolute indolence—makes the loss of my seat in the House nothing, when compared with the loss of my confidence in my brother."
"A very small loss indeed, it being only what you ought never to have had. Etheringhame has the misfortune to be a beautiful talker; he dreams of glorious impossibilities, and sets them forth in elegant language; but, weak and self-indulged, he has neither the energy which resolves, nor the industry which acts. He is about as useful as one of the handsome pictures of his ancestors, among whom I most devoutly wish he were at this moment. Luckily, his very indolence is, at this crisis, almost equivalent to his active support. I can insure you a seat; and as for ​Merton, he may be easily gained over. He is a fool, therefore obstinate; but vain, and therefore manageable."
"Give me but the luxury of answering to one of his prolix, contradictory speeches, and
'If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you, tent it,'—
I only ask the revenge of a reply."
"For all that, he must be on our side: enmities are like friendships—useless encumbrances; individual feelings have nothing to do with general proceedings. I do not know what private life was given us for, except to get in the way of our public one. But I forget you are yet in ignorance of the step I have decided on taking this morning."
Mr. Delawarr drew his chair nearer, and began his narration. It had been a fine study for either actor or painter to have watched those two faces during the progress of that detail. The outline of Mr. Delawarr's countenance was handsome, though now thin even to harshness; the forehead was high, but narrow; lip and cheek were equally pale; and it is in the varieties of colour that lies the expression of the feelings, in which species of expression it was entirely wanting: its character was cold, ​severe, and possessing an energy that was of the mind alone. The large clear grey eyes seemed rather to penetrate into you, than to have any decided meaning themselves; they caught your thought, but expressed not their own. It was a schooled, worldly, set countenance; one from which, without being at all aged, youth had utterly de parted. Early years seemed not to have left a single trace. Truly of such a one might it be said—
"The mother that him bare.
If she had been in presence there,
Would not have known her child."
The face, on the contrary, opposite to him, was bright with all the colours and emotions of youth. The fair wide forehead was a throne spread by the imagination for intellect; the clear dark eyes flashed with every passing idea—the thoughts and the feelings spoke together. The sweetness of the smile softened, but relaxed not, the decision of the mouth.
At first the countenance of his young companion was eloquent of the workings of the mind within. Surprise, incredulity, indignation, disdain, rapidly succeeded each other. Suddenly, by a strong effort, the listener seemed to repress his feelings, and force his thoughts within; and ​it must have been a close observer who saw any thing beyond an air of quiet attention. Something might have been traced of scorn touched with sorrow, but even that carefully subdued.
Mr. Delawarr finished his narrative by saying, "And now, Edward, is your time for action: you will dine with me to-day, and be introduced to Mr. Rainscourt as the future member for H——."
Lorraine rose from his seat, and with that studiously calm manner which strong emotion so often assumes, where the cool word masks the warm feeling, and simply and quietly declined the invitation. Nothing makes a person so irritable as the consciousness of wrong.
"Just as vacillating as your brother," exclaimed Mr. Delawarr, pettishly. "What am I to understand by this silly refusal?—what political romance may it please Mr. Lorraine to be now enacting?"
"One he learned from yourself, and one grounded on all your own previous life."
"My dear Edward, a minister is but Jove, and Fate is mightier than he. I did not create circumstances, therefore cannot control them; and to what I cannot alter, I must yield. I can excuse the impetuosity of youth, which imagines ​to will is to do: so a truce to fine sentiments—keep them for the hustings—look to realities, and dine to-day with me. Every thing changes about us, and we must not be behindhand with the age."
Here he was interrupted by Edward:
"If I had not looked up to you, honoured you, held you as the proof how all that is noble in theory could be made admirable in action, I could listen more patiently; but can it be Mr. Delawarr whom I hear say, that consistency is a prejudice and conduct to be ruled by convenience? Opinions may change with the circumstances on which they were founded, but principles never. Either your whole past life has been a lie, or else your present conduct. The high and warm feelings your youth, matured by the convictions of manhood—all that a whole life has held to be right—cannot, surely, in the experience of a few days, be utterly wrong. By your present change you declare, during so many years I have been either a fool or a hypocrite. By this abandonment of your old opinions, what security is there for the stability of your new? False to your party—still falser to yourself—on what does your future rely? Convenience is the only bond between ​you and your new friends—convenience, that most mutable of rules, varying with all the changes of passion or of interest. Apostate to your creed, deserter from your party, traitor to yourself—again I say, look to your future. Principle cannot support you—that you have pronounced to be but prejudice; your talents—you have admitted their inadequacy to meet the times; your character—you have turned upon yourself. Delawarr, shall the history of that country, whose past has instructed, and whose future has inspired—shall it have no higher name for you than the slave and victim of expediency?"
The colour that for a moment had stained the sallow cheek of the hearer passed in an instant: brow and lip had been carefully moulded to a sneer—and a short bitter laugh prefaced Mr. Delawarr's answer. "Truly, my dear Edward, this display of eloquence is quite needless; we are aware of your capabilities. Do not be too exorbitant, but tell me at once, what do you want besides the borough?"
Lorraine had left the room. His feelings were infinitely bitter. Mr. Delawarr had been his political idol; and of all excellencies we hate to lose those founded on the ​imagination. "A glory had vanished from the earth," as glories can vanish only in youth. The good faith of Mr. Delawarr had made respectable in his eyes even the very points on which they differed. And now all human nature was lowered in the conduct of one individual. None are so disinterested as the thoughtless and absorbed. Edward lost all consideration of himself, while dwelling on his brother's weakness and Mr. Delawarr's recantation. But—and we note this as a proof of a well-constituted mind—though he almost doubted the existence of truth in this world, he never doubted its excellence.
Mr. Delawarr, it must be confessed, took the matter much more coolly. Habits are the petrifactions of the feelings, and his habits were those of business. A resolution is never shaken by a conviction. He had wilfully blinded himself to the subtle spirit of self-aggrandisement which urged his conduct. He saw the need of instant action, and took refuge in that common resource of the destitute, a well-sounding phrase. At such an important crisis he had no time to weigh nice scruples or fantastical definitions of honour. Conscience always acts on the conciliatory system. Mr. Delawarr was vexed at ​losing a young man of his talents; but, when vexation softens not to sentiment, it hardens into anger. Besides, it was one of those cases in which it is a personal satisfaction to be angry. Muttering something to himself of "high-flown notions and ingratitude," he sat down to answer a letter.
Edward's horses were at the door: he hastily ordered his servant home, threw himself on his horse, and never drew bridle till he found himself on the wild but beautiful common of Barnes, which, at five, seems to have left London fifty miles behind. Nothing like a gallop on a beautiful Arabian in all desperate cases. If you have been refused by an heiress, when a Jew has advanced ten thousands pounds on the speculation—if you have been jilted by a beauty, after dancing with her for a week—if you have been thrown out by a petition to the House, after your election has cost your last acre—and then deliberate between a pistol and a gallop, I advise the latter.
Lorraine had ridden off a large portion of his irritation, but not all his regret. He threw the reins on the neck of the beautiful and panting creature, that had sped on as if by some instinct of his will, and rode slowly over the ​solitary heath. He was in that mood of all others when the mind fastens most readily on some chance object for its train of thoughts, when strong internal excitement gladly vents itself on any outward impulse. He had unconsciously paused on a slight ascent, on whose side stood the remains of a small but ancient well: its square walls were in ruins, and a few large but broken stones, some jagged and bare, others with little tufts of grass or a single yellow wild flower springing from them,—all spoke neglect and decay. The clear spring itself dripped over one fragment with a low murmur, whose monotony had all the sweetness of custom. The ear heard it, till it listened for the sound like a familiar thing. The well was filled with weeds, and the water wandered away, wasting its little current over too large a space, but still marked by a growth of brighter and fresher green. "And thus it is," thought Edward, "with all the works of men: whether for beauty or usefulness, how soon they perish! One generation builds, that another may neglect or destroy. We talk of the future—we look to it—we act for it. The future comes—ourselves are forgotten—our works are ruins."
​ The sound of the bubbling water grew more distinct, as the ear became accustomed to its music: it reminded him of one very like it in Etheringhame Park. Both might have made the delight of either antiquary or poet. It wanted nothing to complete the likeness but the large old beech, under whose shadow he and his brother had passed so many mornings.
But it was a bad time for the recollections of boyhood. Lorraine's life had hitherto been one of enjoyment: it was as if fate had, in one day's disappointments, avenged the serenity of years. His brother, whom he had loved with the excusing, relying affection of a woman, had sacrificed his interest and betrayed his confidence, in the indolent irresolution of selfishness: the attachment of a life had been given up to avoid trouble. Then, the friend to whom he looked up—the model in whose steps he proposed to follow—whom he had admired with all the enthusiastic admiration of youth—this friend had degraded himself in his eyes for ever, denied his opinions, falsified his principles, and in a few hours placed the future in direct opposition to all that the past had held high or honourable. It is hard, very hard, for the heart to part with, at one struggle, those it ​has most loved and reverenced. A mist rose to Lorraine's eyes, only to be dissipated by another gallop.
Some twenty years after, it might be questioned whether he would have felt much. With regard to Lord Etheringhame, Edward made no allowance for domestic necessities. I remember once reading a somewhat unnecessary volume, in which a gentleman (single, I am sure,) remonstrated on the exclusion of females from power. He might have spared himself the trouble! Few women but have some lover, husband, brother, or son, over whom they contrive to exert a very fair portion of authority.
As to Mr. Delawarr, another twenty years would have taught his youthful opponent, that political opinions are, like most others, subject to change. A century or two ago, the best blood in the kingdom was spent in defence of the right divine of kings—and it was called heroic conduct; now it is to be shed in defence of the rights of the people—and that is very heroic conduct too. I wonder what will be heroic conduct a century hence. Again: the Swiss guards of Louis XVI. were cut to pieces fighting under orders—every one talked of their bravery and their devotion; the Swiss guards ​of Charles X. have done precisely the same thing, and their own country talks of hanging the survivors. Ireland, last year, was to be paradise, if that Peri, emancipation, was but sent there; now it is a wretched, degraded, oppressed country, unless the Union be dissolved! What ever will it be the year after? So much for any certainty of right in this world!