# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 58

CHAPTER XII.
"L'absence diminue les médiocres passions, et augmente les grandes; comme le vent éteint les bougies, et allume le feu."—Rochefoucauld.
Our first love-letter—it is an epoch in our life—a task equally delightful and difficult. No lover ever yet addressed his mistress, and no mistress ever yet addressed her lover, without beginning the gentle epistle some dozen times at least. There is so much to be said, and which no words seem exactly to say—the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach. One epithet is too cold—another we are scarcely entitled to use. Timidity and tender ness get in each other's way. The letter is sent, and immediately a thousand things are recollected—those, too, we were most anxious to write—and every sentence that occurs is precisely the one we wish we had omitted. The epistle is opened ​and read—with a little wonder, most probably not a little vexation, at its constrained style. True it is that no first love-letter ever yet gave satisfaction to either writer or reader. Its delight is another question.
When Beatrice sat down to write, it seemed the most simple thing in the world, to inform Lorraine of her arrival in Naples—it was quite another matter when the letter came really to be written. Between design and execution in such cases, a wide gulf is fixed. She drew her little table to the window, and began: "Dear Edward"—that was a great deal too familiar—she threw the sheet aside. "Dear Sir"—that was as much too formal—the second sheet followed its predecessor. Then she resolved merely to begin by some general phrase. They say Mr. Rogers takes sixteen hours and as many cups of coffee to a sentence, on the strength of which he keeps his bed for a week. Beatrice bestowed nearly as much time, and quite as much thought, on her composition. It was written on her last sheet of paper.
"TO THE HON. EDWARD LORRAINE.
"Believing, as I do, that Beatrice de los Zoridos is not forgotten, I write a few brief ​lines to tell you of my present comfort and security. I am now in the convent of St. Valerie, Naples—Our Lady be blessed for such an asylum! You will have heard from Alvarez all that took place in Spain. I met with much kindness on my voyage; and I was fortunate in having the widow of a Neapolitan sailor for my companion, who was also my guide to the Signor Pachetti. He mentioned your visit, and the safe arrival of the packet; he told me, too, how anxious you were about my father—God bless you, dear Edward, for it! Pachetti treated me with all the civility in his power: it was at his recommendation I took up my residence here. I am delighted with the place—the carved wainscot of the parlour puts me so in mind of our own poor old house. I hope you went to see the ruins. I look anxiously forward to my father's arrival; till then, I can only offer those acknowledgments he will be so desirous to repeat. If I have not said what you like, pray you think for me, and believe the thoughts mine. "With sincere expressions of gratitude, "Your indebted "Beatrice de los Zoridos.
​ "I know not why I should blush to write what I would not have blushed to say;—your little watch has been my constant companion. But a long absence is before us—a thousand things may happen—a thousand changes occur—I mean, you yourself may change. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. The weakness of repining—the meanness of reproach, would, I trust, be equally unknown to one whose memory would thenceforth be simple gratitude."
How easy it is to be generous about the inconstancy which in our secret self we hold to be impossible! The letter was despatched; and Beatrice had now only to adopt the habits of those around her as much as possible. The young Spaniard had been in many situations of greater difficulty, but in none more irksome. Hitherto her life had been one of active exertion; every day had brought its task; the household duties, the care of her mother, had made leisure sweet, in proportion to its rarity; a library of extensive, but miscellaneous reading—the best in the world for a strong mind; a beautiful country, through which her steps wandered free as the wind,—had made every evening marvel how the hours could have passed ​so quickly since morning. Now she had neither duties nor resources. The Breviary, or the Lives of the Saints, were very unattractive reading. Her naturally grave temper revolted from the small amusements of the nuns, who were such grown-up children, that confidence was impossible between them. Fortunately, Beatrice had never been accustomed to that indulgence which is certain to make the object suppose that all tastes and habits ought to give way to its own. Her early lessons of doing for the best, in circumstances she could not control, were now learned under a new form.
Her residence at St. Valerie had a softening and subduing effect upon her character. As yet she had acted under some strong excitement; she was now taught the necessity of action, whose reward was in its own exertion. She saw her companions happy in frivolous pursuits; she did not pretend that she could be happy also, but she drew from it a useful moral of the advantage of being employed. Observation, with no one to whom it could be communicated, induced the habit of reflection. For the first time she was in society whose members were indifferent, but kind. Accustomed to be loved, and to love, this general ​carelessness seemed at first want of feeling; she soon learned to think more justly. We have no right to expect more from others than we ourselves are inclined to give. If we were to love every one we meet, the very nature of love would be destroyed. Convenience, not affection, is the bond of society. The world is often taxed with falsehood, when, in reality, we should blame our own expectations. Courtesy from our acquaintance, kindness from our friends, attachment from those who make the small circle we love, is all we have a right to expect—and in nine cases out of ten it is what we really experience.
Beatrice soon made for herself a little round of occupations. She acquired a degree of musical science; she perfected her skill in embroidery; and she assisted Sister Lucie, her first acquaintance, in the preparation of those exquisite confections which were the pride of her life. She also learned to lay aside much of her natural silence and reserve; for society, to an affectionate temper like hers, soon made her wish to be liked. It is a most unkindly nature that can rest satisfied with its own approval.
But a yet higher advantage was derived from ​her stay at St. Valerie. The many religious observances by which she was surrounded—the folly of some, the emptiness of others—turned her thoughts, more than ever, to the sacred pages, whose perusal was now the chief employment of her solitude. Study and thought gave her religious feelings of an imaginative character. She saw in religion, not a mere refuge in the time of trouble, or a relief when the heart longed to pour forth its joy—not an expression of passionate gratitude, or still more passionate sorrow; but the great rule of all action. Every other motive for good might fail, this divine one never. Gradually the fear of God became more present to her eyes; and the religion that had been a strong and beautiful feeling, was soon a firm and active principle. The more she studied that small English Bible, the more she was penetrated by its truth, and enlightened with its meaning. In the convent of St. Valerie that faith which became the guide and comfort of her future life was most strengthened and confirmed.
One morning, with an air of important intelligence, Sister Lucie entered her cell.
"If you will go down into the garden, you will see the young English nun, who has been so ill ​—she is out to-day for the first time. Make haste, for she will remain in the open air only a short while."
Beatrice had curiosity enough to lay down the silk she was embroidering, and hasten to the convent garden. Encircled by large old pine-trees, whose gloomy green has no sympathy with the seasons, with boughs whose unchanging foliage maintains a selfish triumph over winter, and stands, sullen and sombre, apart from summer, there was no outward sign of the garden within. It was a bright spring morning—a spring of the South, which only counts its hours by flowers. Many of the walks wound through thickets of myrtle, now putting forth its young and fragrant leaves; others were bordered by straight lines of cypress—those stately and graceful columns, like the pillars of some natural temple. In the midst was one immense cedar, worthy to have been a summer palace on Lebanon; beneath, sheltered by its huge boughs from the sun, was a well, whose square marble walls were covered with the entablatures of the Roman days,—oval compartments of figures, surrounded by a carved wreath of the palm. They had probably told some mythological fiction, now nearly effaced. Beside the ​well-head was a large stone cross, at the foot of which was a kneeling figure, said to be an ancient statue of St. Valerie. The beautiful bend of the form, the finely-shaped head, the delicate and Grecian outline of the features, and the flowing drapery, were suspiciously classical in their grace. Around was an entirely open area, and there the nuns had small separate gardens, where they cultivated flowers and aromatic herbs.
The young English nun was seated at a little distance; her black robe and veil contrasted strangely with the bright boughs over her head—it was a pomegranate-tree, bent to the very ground by its luxuriant weight of blossoms—those rich red flowers which burn in spring with the blushes of summer. She was quite alone; and Beatrice, hastily taking a few early violets, which she had planted in her own plot of ground, went and offered them to the stranger in English. A passionate burst of tears—her first answer—startled her with their excess of sorrow. She had only just succeeded in restoring her companion to some appearance of composure, when the nun, her attendant, returned: seeing Beatrice, she said, in a good-humoured tone of petition,
​ "You are young and idle—if the air does our invalid good, will you stay with her, and help her to return to her cell?"
"O, I like to be of use," replied Beatrice. "If not so good a nurse as yourself, I will be quite as careful."
They were again alone, and the young Spaniard gazed with great interest on her companion, who, after an eager glance round, said,
"You are not a nun—do you mean to take the veil?"
"Never," replied Beatrice; "I am only waiting the arrival of my father."
”Is he an Englishman, that you speak the language so well?"
"No: he is a Spaniard; but my mother was a native of your country."
"Would to God I had never left it!" and again the tears fell thick and fast; then, speaking with an expression of alarm, "I am so weak I scarce know what I say; but surely I need not fear treachery from you?"
A sudden idea flashed across Beatrice: she knew the importance attached to the English convert; she had heard of the haste with which her vows had been made; divers rumours had been afloat in the convent respecting her. ​Perhaps restraint had been laid on her inclinations; could she render her assistance? There might be danger in the attempt; but hers was not a temper to be daunted by danger.
"Your confidence," said she, kindly, after a moment's hesitation, "will be best obtained by my own. I am here only a temporary resident—I am not even a catholic—and look to England as my future home. Can I serve you?"
"Alas!" replied Emily, for we need scarcely say it was she, "you know not how weak, how wicked I have been. I am very wretched, but I have brought it on myself; there is nothing now can be done for me; but we may speak of England; and, perhaps, when you go, you will bear a few kind wishes and vain regrets to the friends I shall see no more,"—and again the tears fell in large drops from the languid eyelid.
Beatrice, who saw that the young nun's weakness was ill calculated to bear these passionate bursts of sorrow, gently soothed her, induced her to walk, and, for the present, avoided conversation. The fresh air, the bright soft sun, and, still more, the relief of such a companion, revived Emily; and she returned to her cell so much better, that she might have been quoted ​as an example in any treatise on the benefit of exercise.
After this she and Beatrice took every opportunity of being together. The suspicion which watched her actions extended not to this intercourse. The Abbess was perfectly aware, that, under the influence of strong feeling and false excitement, she had been led into a step she bitterly repented—this had been sufficiently betrayed during her fever. But the irrevocable vow was now taken—the convent had had its full credit for its convert—a very large pension was secured—her set of pearls had been offered to the Virgin—and St. Valerie might now consider her votary as quite safe. The superior, too, had made "assurance doubly sure," by intercepting the letters on both sides. A Spaniard, Beatrice's catholic faith, on the other hand, as it excited no doubt, attracted no scrutiny—the daughter of an exile poor and powerless, she was an object of no consideration, and her actions were as little noticed as things of no consequence always are—her friendship for the English nun provoked not even a remark. Only those who have lived weeks and months in, as it were, a moral desert, among beings with whom they had not ​a feeling or a thought in common, with only a cold and comfortless knowledge of superiority to console them for being utterly unappreciated—who have felt words rise to the lip, and then checked them from a conviction that they would not be comprehended—they, and they alone, can enter into the pleasure of speaking and being understood, and making conversation a medium not only to express wants, but ideas.
Beatrice had lived too much in solitude not to be simple in her confidence. To those who have never been deceived, it seems so natural to confide in those we love. Besides, a happy attachment has such an enjoyment in its expression; and she was too young not to have a girl's pleasure in talking of her lover. No heart in early life was ever yet a sealed fountain. It is the unhappy love—the betrayed, or the unrequited—that shrouds itself in silence. But in the girl, young and affectionate, out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh. The timidity of pronouncing the beloved name once overcome, it is a fond indulgence to dwell on expanding hopes, or to express gentle fears, for the very sake of having them combated. When Beatrice repressed her ​feelings, it was from pride, not from suspicion; and what pride could be roused by one so very sweet and gentle as Emily Arundel?—for though called Sister Agatha in the convent, we shall preserve her old name.
The first week or two passed in the mere exchange of general thoughts, small but endearing courtesies, and in correcting Beatrice's English pronunciation. But their intercourse grew rapidly more confidential. It is a common thing to jest at the rapid growth and exaggeration of girlish friendships. Strange, how soon we forget our youth! True, they do not last. What very simple, serene, and sincere sentiment in this world ever did? We have soon scarcely affection enough for even our nearest and dearest. Instead of laughing at such early attachment, we might rather grieve over the loss of the unsuspicious kindliness that gushed forth in feelings now gone from us for ever.
A purple twilight threw its soft shadows around as they sat together by the casement, a dim outline of each other's figure only visible, when Beatrice began her history. It was too dark for either to distinguish the other's face; and when the young Spaniard sprung up ​in dismay at seeing her companion's head drop heavily upon her arm, she had not the least idea that her insensibility was occasioned by any part of her narrative. Remedies and relics were equally resorted to before she recovered, when every cause but the right one was assigned for her fainting.
Emily had thought she was accustomed to consider Lorraine attached to another; but that vague hope which lingers so unconsciously in the human heart, or not so much hope as uncertainty, that had as yet given no tangible shape to her rival, had ill prepared her to find that rival in her own familiar companion. Vain regrets; sorrow as passionate as it was bitter, ended in a feeling that could live only in the heart of a woman, young, affectionate, and unworldly. Lorraine, then, loved the young Spaniard, and "I," thought Emily, "may love her too." A patriot might take his best lesson of disinterestedness from feminine affection.