# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
We hope, plan, execute; will it be vain?
Or will the future be the past again?
Truly, a little love-making is a very pleasant thing, and Lady Adelaide found that it greatly enlivened the dulness of Lauriston House. Society does much towards forming a coquette, but here the credit was all Nature's own. Every one, they say, has a genius for something, and here was hers; and it was not mere talent—it was genius. Gifted with no discernment into character, generally speaking, her tact was unerring when her favourite propensity was called into play. She saw at a glance into the recesses of the heart she wished to subdue—intuitively she entered into its tastes—and nothing could be more perfect than her assumption of the seeming best calculated to attract. To her this was more than ordinarily easy; she had no original feelings of her own to alter or subdue, but took, like a picture, ​her expression from the light in which she was placed. All she desired was admiration: like the green and blue bottles in the chemist's shop, she kept her lovers for show, not use; or, like the miser's gold, the mere pleasure of possession was all she desired. The idea that some return might be expected for the affection lavished upon her, never entered her head; and it may be doubted whether she was more gratified by her maid's flattery or by her lover's. As to her marriage, that she took for granted must happen—but she left all its arrangements to her mother.
Many a mother might have feared one so handsome, so fascinating, as Edward Lorraine; but she entertained no alarm about her daughter's heart, who could not well lose what she never had. He lost his, however; and when, at the fortnight's end, he went on to Etheringhame Castle, besides regrets, hopes &c., he carried with him a secret wonder that he had made no formal declaration of rapture or despair, heaven or hell depending on one little monosyllable. Once he drew bridle beneath the old oak where they stopped the carriage; but a moment of not very satisfactory meditation reminded him, that to ride back with a ​proposal was somewhat premature, as though the impression was strong on his mind that the lady was very sensible to his merits, yet it was difficult to decide on what grounds this impression rested.
It was this indecision that constituted the science of Adelaide's skill; hers was a mixed government of fear and hope—a look was to say every thing, which, on being interpreted, might mean nothing. Like a politic minister, her care was—not to commit herself; she left all to the imagination, but not till that imagination was properly excited: the signs of her preference, like the oracles of old, were always susceptible of two interpretations; and a rejected suitor would scarcely have known whether to curse her falsehood or his own vanity. But this was a finale she ever avoided: an offer, like the rock of adamant in Sinbad's voyages, finishes the attraction by destroying the vessel; and, like the Roman conqueror, she desired living captives to lead in her triumph—an ovation of petits soins, graceful flatteries, anxious looks, pretty anger, judicious pique, and vague hopes.
Edward Lorraine rode on, fully convinced that blue was the loveliest colour in the world​—it trimmed the lace cornette, so becoming to a slight invalid, which Adelaide wore at breakfast. A headach is a delicate compliment to a departing lover; and Edward consoled himself by the future preference he was to obtain over every London rival. Her preference! of what did he not feel capable to win it!—what would he not do before they again met!—conquer Greece, and lay the crown at her feet—become prime minister, and place at her disposal the whole list of pensions and places—start forth another Byron, and make her immortal in his love; at least, he felt fully equal to them all, and his horse was spurred to a full gallop in the mere energy of intention. Ah! love and youth are delightful things, before the one is chilled, and the other darkened by those after-days, each of which brings with it some dull or sad lesson!—when we learn, that, though disappointment is misery, fruition is but weariness; and that happiness is like the statue of Isis, whose veil no mortal ever raised.
It was late in the evening before he found himself seated in his brother's favourite apartment in Etheringhame Castle—one of those delicious evenings when winter lingers round the hearth, but spring looks laughing in at ​the window—and the room where they sat was especially suited to such a night. It was very large, and the black oak wainscoting was set in every variety of carvings, where the arms of the family were repeated in every size. Time had darkened, rather than destroyed, the colours of the painted ceiling: the subject was Aurora leading out the horses of the Sun, while the Hours scattered flowers around; the whole encircled by the once bright clouds, whose, morning tints had long disappeared, but the figures were still distinct; and the eye gazed till they seemed rather some fantastic creation of its own than merely painting. A huge black screen, worked in gold, hid the door; and the fantastic gilded Chinese people that covered it, with their strange pagodas—their round heads like little gold balls, yet with an odd human likeness—the foreign palm-trees—the uncouth boats,—seemed like caricatures of humanity called up by some enchanter, and left there in a fit of mingled mirth and spleen. Placed in Gothic arches of carved oak, thousands of books were ranged around—many whose ponderous size and rich silver clasps told of past centuries; and between, placed on altar-like stands of variegated marble, were bronze busts of ​those whose minds had made them gods among their kind.
Two peculiarly large windows, whose purple curtains were as yet undrawn, opened upon the lawn; one was in shade, for an acacia tree grew so close that its boughs touched the glass, and every note swept by the wind from its leaves was audible. The lawn was only separated from the park by a light iron rail; and the beds of rainbow-touched flowers, the clumps of blossoming shrubs, the profusion of early roses, were suddenly merged in the unbroken verdure, and the shadow of old and stately trees farther on, and seen more distinctly than usual at so late an hour, from the clear background of the cloudless west, now like an unbroken lake of amber. There was but a single lamp burning, and that was so placed that its light chiefly fell on a recess, so large that it was like a room of itself, and furnished in most opposite taste to the library.
A skilful painter had covered the walls with an Italian landscape: the light fell from the dome almost as upon reality, so actual was the bend of the cypresses, and so green the ivy, that half covered the broken columns in ​the distance. In the middle was an ottoman, on which lay an ebony lute, inlaid with pearl flowers, and a cast of the loveliest hand that ever wandered in music over its strings. Three pictures hung on the wall: the first was of a most radiant beauty, the hair gathered up under a kind of emerald glory, quite away from the face, whose perfect outline was thus fully given to view. The fine throat and neck were bare, but the satin bodice was laced with jewels, and a superb bracelet was on the arm, which was raised with a gesture of command, suiting well with the brilliant style of her triumphant beauty. In the second, the hair, unbound, fell loose in a profusion of black ringlets, almost concealing the simple white drapery of the figure: the expression was wholly changed—a sweet but tremulous smile parted the lips—and the downcast eyes wore the dreaming looks of passionate thoughts, which feed but on themselves. In the third, a large white veil passed over the head; the hair was simply parted on a brow whose paleness was ghastly—the features were thin to emaciation, the mouth wan and fallen; while the colour of the closed eyes was only indicated by the long black lashes which lay upon the white and sunken ​cheek. Beneath was written, "Francisca——, taken after death."
There was beauty, there was grandeur in the room; it spoke both of mind and of wealth; but the only part which had a look of comfort was that made bright by the cheerful blaze of the fire: a little table, on which stood two decanters, apparently filled from the two urns by Jove's throne—for one was dark, and the other bright; a basket of oranges, and another of walnuts, were set in the middle; and in an arm-chair on each side leant Lord Etheringhame and his brother, too earnest in their conversation to mark an object beyond each other's face.
Edward Lorraine.—"I will urge my arguments against this wasteful seclusion no longer on your own account; you may neglect your talents and your toilette—leave your capacities and your curls equally uncultivated—forget your manners and your mirror—leave your coat to your tailor, and your neck cloth to fate—on your own account I urge you no longer; but I will urge you on that of others. With your wealth, your hereditary influence, your rank, how many paths of utility lie open before you! Your many advantages ought to be more than ​an Egyptian bondage to stimulate you to exertion. Why, the very busts around reproach you: look on the three opposite:—was the debt of gratitude, which men are now paying, by imitation and honourable mention, to these, won by indolent seclusion?"
A sickly smile passed over Etheringhame's fine but wan features, as he said, "You are happy, really, Edward, in the encouragement of your illustrations—Bacon, Milton, and Sydney: the first adventured into public life but to show his insufficiency to withstand its temptations; the second dragged on old age in fear, poverty, and obscurity; the third perished on a scaffold."
Edward Lorraine.—"I must give up my first: Bacon is one of the most humiliating examples of man's subservience to circumstances: he lived in an era of bribery and fraud; and he whose mind was so far in advance of his age, was, alas! in his actions but its copy. Much must be ascribed to his early education among corrupt and time-serving courtiers—the evil with which we are familiar seems scarce an evil: but even his example has a sort of hope in its warning to those who hope the best of their nature. How little ​would any public man stoop now to such a degradation! But Milton and Sydney! look at the glorious old age of the one, when his thoughts, like the ravens of the prophet, brought him heavenly food, and he worked in pride and power at the noble legacy he bequeathed to his native tongue. Look at the glorious death of the other, sealing with his blood those principles of equity and liberty, whose spirit has since walked so mightily abroad, though even now but in its infancy! Never tell me but that these had a prophet's sympathy with centuries to come: I do believe that the power of making the future their present is one of the first gifts with which Providence endows a great man."
Lord Etheringhame.—"But, even supposing I had the power, which I have not, and the inclination, which I have still less, of mixing in the feverish and hurried strife called the world, of what import is an individual?—I see thousands and thousands rushing to every goal to which human desires can tend—and what matters it if one individual loiter on the way? I see, too, thousands and thousands daily swept off, and their places filled up, leaving not a memory to say that they have been— ​and again I ask, of what import is an individual?"
Edward Lorraine.—"Of none, if this living multitude were as the sands on the shore, where none is greater or less than the other; but when we see that one makes the destinies of many, and the tremendous influence a single mind often exercises, it behoves every man to try what his powers are for the general good. It is the effort of a single mind that has worked greatest changes. What are the events that, during the last five hundred years, have altered the whole face of things—changed the most our moral position? Let me enumerate some of the most striking. The discovery of America, of gunpowder, of printing,—the Reformation, the magnet,—all these were severally the work of an individual, and in each case a lonely, humble, unaided individual. Algernon, all these are stimulating examples. Instead of asking of what import is an individual, let us rather ask, what is there an individual may not do?"
Lord Etheringhame.—"And to what have all these discoveries tended? I see you glance round the room and smile. We have luxuries, I grant, of which our forefathers never dreamed; ​but are we better or happier? It is true, where a former earl stepped upon rushes, I step upon a carpet; but comfort is a very conventional term; and what we have never had, at least we do not miss. We do not kill each other quite so much, but we cheat each other more; mortifications are more frequent than wants; and it does appear to me, that, in this change of rude into civilised life, we only exchange bodily evils for mental ones."
Edward Lorraine.—"But success in one effort inclines us to hope for success in another: the same powers which have so well remedied the ills of the physical world, may, when so applied, equally remedy those of the moral world. Hitherto, it seems to me, we have attended more to the means than to the end—we have accumulated rather than enjoyed. All the energies of the mind were devoted to necessity; but our house is now built and furnished, our grounds cultivated, ourselves clothed: our natural condition thus ameliorated, now is the time to enjoy our artificial one. We have provided for our comforts; let us now attend to our happiness;—let each man sedulously nurture those faculties of pleasure which exist both for himself and others. It is ​the mental world that now requires discovery and cultivation. And has not much been done even in this? How much has reason softened religious persecution and intolerance! Every day do not we become more and more convinced of the crime and cruelty of war? How little is the exercise of arbitrary authority endured! How much more precious is the life of man held! How much more do we acknowledge how intimately the good of others is connected with our own! How is the value of education confessed! Only look on the vast multitude who are at this moment being early imbued with right principles, accustomed to self-control, and fed with useful knowledge. Look at the youthful schools filled with quiet, contented, and industrious children, now acquiring those first notions of right and wrong—those good and regular habits, which will influence all their after-life. Open the silver clasps of yon huge chronicle, and you will see it is not so long since human beings were burnt for a mere abstract opinion—not so long since the sword was appealed to in the court of justice, to decide on right and wrong, and its success held as God's own decision—not so long since a man looked forward to the battle as the only ​arena of his struggle for fame and fortune, when education was locked up like a prisoner, and often like a state-prisoner, uselessly and vainly, in a monastery, and knowledge, like fixed air, too confined to be wholesome. Are not all these things changed for the better? and, encouraged by the past, Reason herself turns into hope. Algernon, I am young, and as yet undistinguished; but I am not thoughtless. I look forward to future years of honourable and useful exertion, for which early youth is not the season. We require some experience of our own, before we benefit by that of others; but my path is ever before me, and it is my entire conviction of its excellence that makes me wish my brother to share it with me."
Algernon gazed for a moment on the expression which lighted up the beautiful face of his brother, whom he loved as those love who have but one channel for the gathered waters of their affection; but his sympathy was as that of a mother who hears her eldest boy dwell on schemes in which she has no part beyond the interest that she takes in all that is his.
Lord Etheringhame.—"You will succeed, Edward. Your energy will carry you over some obstacles—your enthusiasm will blind you to ​others; but I, who have neither spirits for the struggle, nor desire for the triumph, what have I to do at Olympus? Edward, there are some sent into the world but as a sign and sorrow, whose consciousness of early death is ever with them—who shrink from efforts on which the grave must so soon close—who ask of books but to pass, not employ time—whose languid frame shrinks from exertion that would shake yet quicker from the glass the few lingering sands—who look back to their youthful feelings, not with regret for their freshness, but awe at their intensity. Such a one am I. I have lived too much in too few years. Feelings and passions have been to my mind like the wind that fans the flame into a brighter, clearer light, only to exhaust the material of the blaze. The oil which should have fed the altar for years has been burnt out in a single illumination. I went into the world; and what were the fruits of my experience? That I was too weak to resist temptation; and, in yielding, I entailed on myself suffering even beyond the sin. I found that passion which had seemed too mighty for resistance, died of itself, and in spite of all my then efforts to keep it alive. I found that affection could pass away, even without a cause. I stood beside ​the tomb of the young and beautiful, and felt it had been opened by me, and that by no wilful crime, but by a change of feeling, over which I had no control. My first welcome, as I rode into our avenue, was waved by the black plumes of my father's hearse. I have ever held it as an omen. The fever is in my veins, and the death-damps on my brow. Do not, Edward, talk to me of active life."
Lorraine looked on the Earl. The dark chestnut of his hair was mixed with white, the fine outline of his features was sunk, and the whole expression was so spiritless, so sad, that though Edward, with all the soothing tenderness of affection, did not believe his health impaired to the extent of danger, yet could not help owning to himself, how little was he fitted to be one of the gladiators in social or political life.
Truly the history of most lives may be soon comprehended under three heads—our follies, our faults, and our misfortunes. And this, after all, was the summary of Lord Etheringhame's. His love was a fault, its termination a misfortune, and certainly his persisting in its regret was a folly. But there is nothing so easy as to be wise for others; a species of prodigality, by the by—for such wisdom is wholly wasted.
* ↑ See opening Note
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